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PAGES FROM AN 
ADVENTUROUS LIFE 



HY 



"DICK DONOVAN" 

(J. E. PRESION MUDDOCK) 




W/ T/f THIR T Y-ONK I LI. US TRA TIONS 



NEW YORK 

MITCHELL KENNERLEY 

MCM VI I 







'X^Ory^y 



<!^' 



With fraternal regard, and a 
whole-hearted love for the 
dear old Club, I dedicate this 
book to my Brother Savages 



Foreword 

/ HAVE, in the following pages, written a good deal about myself, and a 
little about those I have knoiun — that little, in most cases, luith sadness 
and pain, Feiv of us, alas ! can look back over the road ive have 
travelled without regrets and sighs ; for ive camiot close our eyes to the 
green mounds and ivhite gravestones nvhich tell of dear companions ivho, 
having journeyed with us some oj the nvay. Jell out of the race, and passed 
into the shadows. I have helped to lay so many Jriends to rest, and have 
so frequently parted in love and affection from those I was destined to meet 
no more, that my heart has been often bruised. In youth and early 
manhood one makes friends, but as they die off their places remain empty. 
To ivrite oj the comrades luith ivhotn you have marched, laughed, and 
sometimes ivept, but ivho are noiu nothing more than a memory, is a 
painjul task, and I confess, nor am I ashamed of the iveakness, that at 
times my eyes have grown dim and my pen has faltered. 

Having outlived most of my near relatives, and being the sole 
survivor of my particular branch of the family, there are moments when 
I feel as if I ivere living in a world of shades. 

In this story of myself I have purposely adopted a somewhat discursive 
style, nor have I folloived events in strict chronological order. A 
stiff, conventional narrative form did not, somehow, recommend itself to 
me. I have done little more than refer to my childhood. From both 



Foreword 

parents I inherited, and displayed it early, the desire to move on — the 
Wanderlust, as the Germans call it. There was sea salt in my 
blood; and nature spoke to me in a voice that I ivell understood. Never 
shall I forget the Jeeling of elation I experienced when as a mere boy I 
sailed away to India, just bejore the outbreak of the terrible Mutiny, 
ivhere I remained for three years, and such experiences as I had I record 
them. But let it not be supposed for a moment that I have attempted to add 
anything to nuhat is already known of those dark years, or even to ivrite 
a footnote to history. I have done no more than jot down my impres- 
sions — the impressions of a boy, be it understood. I ivas conscious of 
the electricity in the atmosphere, of the tension, of the something that might 
happen ; but I was far from the actual storm zone. I only heard the 
rumbling of the thunder, saw nothing of the lightning, and had no hair- 
breadth escapes or thrilling adventures of any consequetice. Had I been 
a feiu years older, I might have done something. As it luas, I ivas a 
beardless youngster, and as a high-spirited boy felt aggrieved because I 
had to lead the life of a boy. However, my youth ivas not my fault. 
The one thing I am thankftil for is that I ivas trained in a hard school 
during my Indian experiences, and it developed in me the sense of self- 
dependence, as ivell as the love of freedom, which has made it dificult 
for me ever since to take kindly to the restrictions of civilisation in the 
purely conventional sense. The vast ocean, the desert sands, the dark 
jungle, the iveird bush, have lured me ivith a syren call that I could 
never resist. I have had yearnings, too, that would not be suppressed ; 
the inborn love of books has attracted me to literary centres and literary 
people; and I have been impelled by irrepressible instincts to incline 



Foreword 

tonvards that mysterious region ivhere intellectual Bohemia ivas to be 
found. Shamelessly I acknowledge a preference for intellect in rags 
rather than for dull, staid, smug respectability in broadcloth. 

With a temperament and disposition such as the foregoing confession 
reveals, it is obvious that my career ivas bou7id to run a somewhat 
erratic course, and in that fact, perhaps, may be found such interest as 
the book possesses. Within me there has alnuays burned an energy 
luhich has prevented me from being idle. I have been forced to find a 
physical and mental outlet for it. The rust of inactivity has certainly 
never affected me. 

In the following pages I have dealt in detail with the Savage Club, 
•with ivhich it has been my proud privilege to be associated for upwards 
of thirty years. Thirty years in human affairs is a long period, 
and in my case I have seen men come and go — men nvho have ivritten 
their names in something more stable than sand. The Savage Club 
therefore, is closely connected ivith part of my lif, and I could hardly 
have ivritten my memoirs without reference to many of my brother 
Savages, living and dead. 

For myself, the day wears apace. I have supped my full of life, 
I have warmed both hands at its f re, and the evening is closing in. But 
when the time comes to depart hence, I shall be able to turn my face to 
the ivall conscious of having striven, according to my lights, to do nvhat 
I considered I was called upon to do ivith all my heart and all my soul. 
The best of us can do no more than that. 

THE AUTHOR. 



Contents 



l'Al".K 



CHAPTER I 

Iiiith and early childhood — Departure for India — I meet Nana 
Sahib — My experiences during the Mutiny — Personal 
adventures — The feeling in Calcutta against Viscount 
Canning — Petition to the Queen for his recall — The arrest 
of the King" of Oude — I witness an execution by blowing 
away from the guns in Bombay — The last of the John 
Company — My return to Englanil .... 



CHAPTER II 

Sudden death of my fiither in Calcutta — I study with a tutor — 
Theatrical experiences — Some celebrated actors and 
actresses — Practical jokes — Charles Dillon and Barney 
Egan — Amusing^ story of "Professor" Anderson — I wit- 
ness the execution of a woman at Newgate — I sail 
for Sydney — Rough it on the Pacific coast — Long tramp 
through the bush — 1 meet Morgan the Bushranger — A 
weird experience on the diggings — How I was induced to 
go in search of a missing friend — I return to Sydney — I 
meet with an old acquaintance, and sail in a coal-laden 
ship for China - - Terrible voyage and close shaves — 
Adventure with a junk — I narrowly escape being blown up . 46 



CHAPTER III 

I leave Shanghai in a coasting junk for Amoy — I try to join the 
rebels, but am prevented — I return to Shanghai, and sail 
for New Guinea — Am the guest of a cannibal chief — A 
memorable feast and an undesirable dish — I return to 
England, and start for the United States during the wars — 



Contents 

PAGB 

Riots in New York- Ne^iocs hung on lamp-posts — Back 
in Mancliestcr--! make the a("(|uaintant:e of Toole, Irving, 
Charles Mathews, Joseph Jefferson, Charles Calvert, and 
others — I cross the Atlantic again — Fire panic on board — 
An exciting time — A man threatens to stab me — Revisit 
Australia — Come home round the Horn — Narrow escape 
from running into an iceberg — I proceed to London, and 
become the proprietor of a ne\vspai)er — Make the acquaint- 
ance of Field- Marshal Sir William Comm, Shirley l^rooks, 
Mark Lemon, Ulanrhard Jorrokl, Tom Hood, Willian) 
lirunton, Mark Twain, Joachim Miller, and others . . 82 



CHAPTER IV 

I witness the execution of another woman — The fire-eaters — A 
threatened light, and how it endeil — Opening of the Criterion 
— Death of my friend, Tom Hood — I make the a(i|uaintance 
of Benjamin Ward Richardson and George Cruikshank — 
The latter dances the Highland Fling for me when he was 
over eighty — I stop my paper, and join James Henderson's 
staff — Become a special correspondent of Tltc Hour — The 
Bravo mystery — Am present at the exhumation of the body 
— Am sent to meet the I'rince of Wales on his home-coming 
from India — Amusing experience with Archibald Forbes — 
I proceed to Scotland — The Greenock Advertiser . . ill 



CHAPTER V 

The late Queen accepts a copy of my book — Recollections of T. P. 
O'Connor — Myself and Sala go to Chislehurst to the lying- 
in-state of the cx-emperor of the French — Amusing ex- 
perience — A Sala supper — I visit the Savage Club for the 
first time — Make the acquaintance of Andrew Halliday, 
Henry J. Byron, Henry Lee, and others — The story of the 
founding of the rent)wned Club — Sudden death at the Club 
of Ceorge Crossmith The Club entertains the J'rince of 
Wales, who is elected a member — Pathetic end of Henry S. 
Leigh 144 



xu 



Contents 



CHAPTER VI 

Annual dinner of the Savage Club — Great gathering of notabilities 
— Mr W. E. Gladstone's speech — Lord Mayor Sir Francis 
Wyalt Truscott entertains the Club at the Mansion House 
— Dr IJennett's tribute — Move to the Caledonian — Dinner 
at Willis's Rooms — H.R.H. Prince of Wales present— The 
Prince becomes a Savage- A memorable night — Death of 
Arthur Matthison— Death of Henry S. Leigh- " J'>roken 
Toys" Death of Henry J. IJyron — The Maori king, 
Tawhia, entertained — "Dead in the Desert" — London 
newspaper correspondents entertained 



CHAPTER VH 

A remarkable meeting with a friend of my youth — He utters a 
prophecy — I become tragically interested in a great disaster 
— I visit the Continent — My uncle's fortune — I go out to 
Davos Platz — I suggest many improvements, but am laughed 
at — Lssue a guide-book, and am mainly instrumental in 
getting the improvements carried out — I settle in the scjuth 
of France — My friend the Prince — A Ciilbertian situation — 
An extraordinary accident — How it affected me — I leave 
France, and proceed to Switzerland — Am appointed cor- 
respondent of The Daily News — The story of "John Hull's 
Neighbour in her true Light" — I meet with an accident on 
Mont lilanc — Narrow escape from death while crossing the 
Simplon I'ass — I return to England, and take a house in 
Deal ........ 200 

CHAPTER VHI 

How my life has been influenced by sudden and unexpected inci- 
dents — I accept an engagement in Dundee — Amusing 
experiences in Ireland during the time I was gathering 
material for a life of Richard Pigott — I take to lecturing — 
A cautious Scotsman prays for me — A temperance address, 
and how it affected me — The mysterious tragedy of Archibald 
MacNcil — I leave Dundee — My generous employers — I go 
to Canada — Lecture at the Imperial Institute — I raise a 
storm, and fight a newspaper war — It all ends in smoke — 
An experience in Plymouth- A little comedy . . 235 

xiii 



Contents 



CHAPTER IX 

I-ACE 

An interview with Mr (now Sir) George Newnes — How " For God 
and the Czar" came to be written — Death of my friend, 
Byron Reed, M.P. — Pathetic incidents — How a copyright 
of mine was infringed — Curious history of one of my books 
— A lawsuit — Remarkable point of law in connection with 
the Copyright Act settled — Mr Justice Kekewich awards 
me damages — I edit the third volume of the " Savage Club 
Papers" 258 



CHAPTER X 

The Saturday Savage dinners — Distinguished guests — Ladies' 
nights — Our honorary secretary — A Nanscn night — Good 
story by Lord Alverstone — The Indian princes — Phil May 
and the flower girl — Captain Scott and officers of the 
Discovery — Sudden death of a member while singing a 
song — Death of my friend, Paul Frenzcny — Brief par- 
ticulars of some prominent members . . . . 274 



CHAPTER XI 

I visit La Grande Chartreuse, and have a weird experience — A 
visit to the Grotto de Ste Baume in Provence — A send-off 
dinner — A trip to the West Indies —Dick Donovan's books — 
Amusing incidents — An explanation— The universal demand 
for the detective story — The late Prince Bismarck a great 
reader of Donovan's books — The butcher and the artist : a 
story with a moral . ..... 



Index ..... • • • 345 



List of Illustrations 



Portrait of the Author, by Edwin Ward 

Pauline Markham 

Charles Calvert as " Macbeth " 

Markham as " Myles-na-Copleen " 

Markham (another portrait) . 

William Brunton 

Pencil Sketch of Artemus Ward and Henry M. Stanley 

The Author in the trap with the pony that caused the 
death of II. Hyron Reed, M.P. 

Portrait of Charles Collette . 

Portrait of E. E. Peacock 

Portrait of Arthur Morrison . 

Portrait of Franklin Clive 

Portrait of Harrison Hill 

Portrait of Courtice Pounds . 

His Excellency Dr Fridtzof Nansen's Autograph 

Unfinished Portrait of the Author 

A Group of Savages .... 

Autograph Letter of Paul Frenzeny . 

Two Portraits of Frenzeny 





Fronlispicce 


facing page 92 




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278 




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280 




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280 




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282 




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288 




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288 




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290 




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292 



List of Illustrations 



Portrait of W. H. J. Boot 

Portrait of Mostyn T. Pigott . 

Portrait of Thomas Catling 

Portrait of Colonel A. Bosworth 

The Author (according to Tom Browne) 

"Oh, wad some power the giftie gie' us "^ 
Tae see oorsels as ithers see us " L 

Tom Browne in his Studio 
The late Charles Bertram 
David Devant . 
Robert Ganthony 
Colonel E. Rogers 
Pinhorn Wood 



facii 



r^294 
294 
298 
298 
300 

302 

304 
304 
306 
306 
308 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 



CHAPTER I 

Birth and early childhood — Departure for India — I meet Nana Sahib — 
My experiences during the Mutiny — Personal adventures — The 
feeling in Calcutta against Viscount Canning — Petition to the 
Queen for his recall — The arrest of the King of Oude — I witness 
an execution by blowing away from the guns in Bombay — The last 
of the John Company— My return to England. 

That eccentric and lovable Bohemian, Mortimer 
Collins, summed up the philosophy of life in an 
epigram quite equal to that uttered by Disraeli's 
Sidonia : " Youth is prophecy, manhood a fruition, 
old age a vision of both past and future." 

To the man who fully realises that the shadows are 
lengthening and his sands running low, the past must 
certainly appear as a confused vision. To look back 
over the course one has been traversing for upwards 
of sixty years is to fall into a frame of mind which, 
despite all one's philosophy, cannot fail to beget a sense 
of sadness. For how can we shut out the vision of 
white gravestones which mark the spots where sleep 
those with whom we have laughed and sung and 
sorrowed ? A dumb, inarticulate cry rings like a wail 
through our being : 

" O for the touch of a vanished hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! " 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

The penalty of a full life is this obtruding memory of 
the dear dead ones who, as they passed into the night, 
took from us a little of the joy of living. Youth finds 
its pleasure in the to-day, it snaps its fingers at the 
to-morrow ; it revels and romps and tramps with its 
companions, it builds castles in the air, it knows 
nothing of the smell of the mould. But age, alas ! 
has only the recollections of yesterday, while the 
future is — Dust ! The track of my existence has been 
a peculiarly sinuous one, and in its early stages may 
be traced under the burnino^ skies of India during the 
lurid days of the Great Revolt, when a handful of 
Britain's sons held their own against stupendous odds ; 
then it winds over many seas and through strange 
lands, often far beyond the fringe of civilisation. As 
it has fallen to my lot to know many countries, so I 
have come in contact with all sorts and conditions of 
men ; my experiences have been varied, and occasion- 
ally not without excitement. 

On my mother's side I am a descendant of that 
branch of the Preston family known as "the proud 
Prestons of Preston." Many of my maternal kinsfolk 
were prominently associated with Lancashire, more 
particularly with that hive of industry — Manchester ; 
in numerous instances they were servants of the 
Honourable East India Company, and won distinction 
as sailors and fiorhtin^ men. Their bones bleach 
under many skies, or lie fathoms deep in dark waters. 
My father was a seafaring man, but was intended for 
the law, my paternal grandfather being a member of a 
very old firm of family lawyers. My father disliked 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

law, however, so ran away to sea, and made several 
voyages in East Indiamen. He was still young 
when he married my mother, but had seen much 
and travelled far. I was not born until twelve years 
after the marriage. Two sisters had preceded me. 
One of them was destined to die before she had reached 
the age of twenty, after undergoing a terrible operation. 
Poor dear! My birthplace was a quaint old house on 
the borders of the New Forest, within a few miles of 
Southampton. In the entrance hall the broad staircase, 
with its oak balustrade, was lighted at the top of the 
first flight of stairs by a large stained-glass window, 
which threw its prismatic colours on the floor of 
polished oak, and on the carven, grotesque features 
and form of a rampant griffin, with its forepaws 
clasping a heraldic shield. This griffin was supported 
by the massive terminal pillar of the balustrade, and it 
seemed from its fixed wooden stare to be ever gazing 
into futurity. The uncouth figure of the griffin exer- 
cised a peculiar fascination over my childish mind, 
and I would sit for hours on a wooden stool, my chin 
resting on my hands, gazing at it, spellbound and 
motionless. I have an idea that I used to dream out 
romances, in all of which that uncouth griffin figured. 
I have distinct recollections, too, of wanderings, in 
company with my sisters and a faithful old nurse, in 
the depths of the Forest, where we acquired a smattering 
of woodland lore, and I developed the love for Nature 
and freedom which has always been so strong within 
me. Occasionally, too, we were taken to the house 
of a relative who resided near Netley, and nothing 

3 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

deliofhted me more than to be allowed to visit the 
ruins of the once magnificent Abbey. At that 
time a strange, little old woman used to haunt the 
ruins. No doubt she was a poor, harmless creature 
who went there to gather faggots or herbs ; but we 
children, although we had none of the timidity or fear 
peculiar to most children, regarded her with something 
like awe. We knew her to be a witch endowed with 
supernatural powers, and I am certain that I believed 
it was her custom to ride through the air on a broom- 

o 

stick. As we generally took luncheon with us on 
these visits to the Abbey, the witch came in for a 
share of it. She professed to be very fond of us, and 
found delight in amusing us with weird stories about 
witches, fairies, and giants. One day she studied the 
palm of my small hand very intently, and said I was 
destined to cross many seas and wander through many 
lands, and ofttimes be in danger. This prophetic 
statement, which was several times repeated, came 
true, and I have never forgotten the little old woman 
and her prophecy. 

In these early years of my existence my father's 
visits to his family were few and brief, as his duties 
kept him much at sea. But he was a devoted and 
loving parent, who did everything he could to pro- 
mote the happiness of his children. His coming 
home was always a red-letter day, as he invariably 
came laden with presents. My present was generally 
a model of a boat or ship, for I had a passionate love 
for anything associated with the sea, and nothing 
delighted me so much as the model of a vessel with 

4 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

rigging and yards. When I was about eight years 
of age he sailed away for India, and it was understood 
that his absence would not extend beyond nine or 
ten months. We children, including my youngest 
sister, who was nearly two years my junior, together 
with our mother and our nurse, waved him an 
affectionate adieu as the vessel moved slowly from 
the dock. Strangely enough, with the exception of 
myself, his family were never to see his dear face 
again. The ship he was returning in broke down in 
the Bay of Bengal, and had to put back to Calcutta, 
from whence she had started. On examination 
it was found that the necessary repairs would take 
several months to complete, and my father was 
notified that he would be put on half pay during the 
time the vessel was laid up. This angered him, 
and he resigned, but was immediately offered a 
lucrative appointment on the China station subject 
to his signing for three years. This he did, little 
dreaming that it was to separate him for ever from 
his loved ones. Shortly afterwards, too, the failure 
of an unlimited bank in which he was a depositor 
and shareholder swept away his small fortune, 
and that militated against his return. Then a 
shattering blow fell upon my poor mother. Our 
beautiful house had to be sold, and faithful old 
servants discharged. For some reason or another I 
had been taken away days before by a relative to a 
curious old house, situated at a place called Hamble, 
and there I had two little adventures. There was a 
tiny harbour used principally by fishing boats, I fancy. 

5 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

Finding a plank floating in the water, I promptly 
seated myself straddle-legged on it, without even 
taking off my shoes and socks, and paddled forth 
towards the entrance of the dock ; but as my know- 
ledge of the management of such a primitive craft 
was nil, it and I quickly parted company, and I was 
floundering about in the muddy water. My career 
would have been cut short at that early stage had 
not a fisherman, observing the mishap, hastened to 
my rescue, and hoisted me out with a boat - hook. 
I was none the worse for the ducking, and a day or 
two later on was the hero of adventure number two. 
In the garden of the house where I was staying was 
a tall tree, and in the topmost branches of that tree 
a crow's nest which 1 determined to investigate. Up 
that tree I went ; it was slow and painful toil, and my 
bare legs suffered, as I had not at that stage been 
promoted to the dignity of trousers. I was resolved, 
however, to accomplish my purpose, but when within 
reaching distance of the nest the branch I was 
clinging to broke, and I was hurtled earthward, until 
suddenly brought up with a round turn, owing to my 
clothes being caught by a stumpy branch which stuck 
out like a peg from the main trunk. In that un- 
dignified position I dangled between earth and 
heaven ; for a space of months, as it seemed to me, 
as a matter of fact, about ten minutes, until I attracted 
the attention of an old female servant who was 
hanging out clothes in the orchard. " Lors a mussy 
me," she exclaimed, as she rushed as fast as her old 
legs would carry her to the house, "if there ain't that 

6 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

young varmint a-hooked up in the tree!" In course 
of time there came two labouring men, and partly by 
means of a ladder, and partly by climbing, reached me, 
and took me off the peg. But as soon as I was 
released I made my way down the tree unaided. The 
old servant, who had watched the operation breath- 
lessly, said as soon as I reached terra firma : " You've 
come nigh drownding of yerself, and a-hanging of 
yerself : I wonder what mischief you'll be getting into 
next? You'll be coming to a bad end as sure as 
eggs is eggs if you ain't more careful." In the course 
of a week I left Hamble with my relative, who was an 
architect engaged in constructing some buildings in 
the village. We travelled by the stage-coach, and 
occupied seats outside. It was a moonlight night, I 
remember. On reaching Southampton I was trans- 
ferred to a chaise, and driven to the house of my 
uncle, where, to my astonishment, I found my mother 
and sisters. The blow had fallen, and our old home 
was ours no longer. I was too young to understand 
the full meaning of the sorrow, and when my dear 
mother told me that we were all going to Manchester, 
where we had lots of aunts, uncles, and cousins, my 
small heart swelled with joy, for the desire to travel 
was already making itself felt. And yet I was 
grieved at the thought of leaving the place of my 
childhood. I had some sort of vagrue idea that 
Manchester was far, far away, and that we should be 
confronted with many perils before we could reach 
our destination. Noting that my elder sisters were 
in tears on the fateful day we were to start, and 

7 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

attributing these tears to fear, I smote my manly 
bosom, and exclaimed : "Cheer up, girls ; I'll protect 
you." This valiant declaration caused them to smile, 
notwithstanding that their hearts were torn at the 
thought that our changed fortunes compelled our 
leaving the home where they had known nothing 
but happiness. 

Curiously enough, I had another narrow escape 
from drowning just before leaving my native town. 
A great friend of my family was an old Colonel, re- 
tired. He was an enthusiastic jack fisher, of irascible 
temper but singularly kind disposition. Being a 
bachelor, he evinced great fondness for children, and 
was always bringing us presents and toys. I was a 
favourite with him. I once heard him say to my 
nurse : " I like that boy, you know ; he's got a spice 
of the devil in him." I didn't quite grasp the full 
meaning of the remark at the time, but the words 
clung to me. He used to drive a very spirited horse, 
in a cross between a dog-cart and an Indian buggy, 
and wherever he went he was accompanied by a 
devoted man-servant. As I was to learn at a later 
period, the old Colonel was a "two-bottle man," and 
after a good dinner and his two bottles it was neces- 
sary for his servant to tuck him up in bed. 

One day just before our departure the Colonel had 
arranged for a couple of days' fishing in a delightful 
villaore, the name of which I have forgotten, and he 
took me with him. There was an old flour mill, and 
a most picturesque inn, with a renowned jack stream 
running through the grounds. The opposite bank of 

8 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

the stream was reached from the garden of the inn 
by a frail plank bridge, with a rustic railing on one 
side of the bridge only. In the meadow on the 
opposite side I was gathering wild flowers, and the 
choleric, beetroot-nosed Colonel was fishing for jack. 
Suddenly he called for his servant, who, I believe, 
was flirting in the orarden with one of the maids of the 
inn. "George, George, quick! bring the net. I've 
hooked a monster." I heard the cry, rushed from 
the meadow all eaorerness and excitement, rained the 
tiny bridge, and toppled into the stream. The faith- 
ful servant sprang to my rescue in spite of his master 
exclaiming: " Damn the child! Come here and help 
me to land the fish." But when he realised what had 
happened he cast his rod away, and became terribly 
aoritated. He himself carried me, when the servant 
had dragged me out, to the inn, where my wet clothes 
were taken off, and I was put to bed. I was none 
the worse for the involuntary cold bath, and the next 
day returned home in company with the Colonel, whom 
I only saw once again. Six months later he was 
dead. 

The sorrowful day came at last when my mother 
had to leave for the north with her brood. To her 
it must have been a bitter trial. We reached in due 
time the grimy town of Manchester without any 
adventures, although the journey in that day was 
much more of an undertaking than it is now. For 
myself, I was disappointed. I had fondly hoped we 
miofht have encountered a lion or tiorer or even a 
snake, for 1 was burning with a desire to do some- 

9 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

thing, and my imagination had been quickened by the 
weird stories of the old witch of Netley Abbey. We 
spent a few days in London at my paternal grand- 
mother's house, and I was taken to see the Great 
Exhibition in Hyde Park. I was somewhat be- 
wildered by the enormous crowd of people and the 
immensity of the place, but, nevertheless, became much 
interested in all I saw, and particularly in an exhibit 
of a large stained-glass window depicting scenes in 
the life of Robin Hood. It was designed and painted 
by a cousin of mine. I had always been very fond of 
the story of Robin Hood, and this pictorial repre- 
sentation of it delighted me, and aroused in me a 
strong desire to follow in Robin Hood's footsteps. 
There were difficulties in the way, however, and in 
a few days I found myself in Cottonopolis. But to 
this day I preserve a very vivid recollection of that 
wonderful Exhibition. 

For one term I was sent to a highly pretentious 
"Academy for the Sons of Gentlemen." It was con- 
spicuous for two things, high fees and plenty of caning. 
Sentimentalists had not succeeded in abolishing the 
cane in those days, thank goodness, and vigorous 
whacking hardened the body, increased the appetite, 
and knocked the starch and conceit out of a youngster. 
For myself, I was constantly being whacked, and verily 
believe I came to like it in the end. I had not yet 
completed my ninth year when I was given to under- 
stand I was "the worst young gentleman in the 
establishment." It was undoubtedly a fighting 
Academy, and when the masters were not thrashing 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

the boys, the boys were thrashing each other. A 
favourite weapon with us was a handkerchief with a 
stone or a marble tied up in one of the corners. This 
weapon was capable of inflicting a great deal of punish- 
ment, and we used to ding-dong each other with it 
with great vigour, frequently to the " effusion of blood " 
as the Scots say. The chief thing I did at that 
Academy was fighting, when I wasn't being caned. 
Certainly I didn't learn much in the way of lessons. 
Tuition was regarded as of such secondary import- 
ance that after the first term I was transferred to an 
old-fashioned Collegiate school in one of the most 
beautiful parts of Cheshire. There I spent nearly six 
happy and delightful years. The rod was by no means 
spared, but the acquirement of knowledge was made 
compulsory on the part of a youth who did not wish to 
be summarily dismissed in disgrace, I managed to 
escape expulsion, and my dear parents were gratified 
with fairly good reports at the end of each term. In 
other respects, however, I must have been a very 
refractory pupil, for I was whacked so frequently. It 
was a caning age, and caning acted as a tonic. My 
chief sin was in breaking out of school bounds. On 
the slightest provocation I was off, and would tramp 
about the country, sleeping in fields or woods, until 
my pocket - money was exhausted. Then, full of 
repentance, I returned, and took my whacking without 
a groan. Occasions were when I prevailed upon a 
few other daring spirits to follow me. Proudly I led my 
band of marauders into the depths of the delightful 
woods that everywhere abounded. War was declared 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

between us and the gamekeepers, who regarded me as 
a youthful terror. We defied and kept our enemies at 
bay for a long time, until one day I was betrayed by a 
Judas Iscariot amongst my followers into the hands 
of a head keeper to whom I had been particularly 
cheeky. This fellow carried a heavy stick, and he 
laid it about me with such spite and energy as to 
cripple me for many days. I may have flinched a 
little under the severe punishment, but I would not 
howl out ; that seemed to exasperate him, and I have 
always had an impression that in his passion he would 
have killed me had another man not interfered. I 
then asked him if he had finished. White with rage, 
and panting with exertion, he made another effort to 
get at me, but was restrained, and I was counselled to 
" Hook it." My chastiser was a powerfully built fellow 
between forty and fifty years of age. I was under 
eleven. I limped away bleeding, and feeling very 
much as if all my bones had been pulverised. When 
I got back to school I sought out my betrayer, and 
challenged him to mortal combat. All the school was 
against him ; he was branded as a sneak, and was 
forced into meeting me in conflict. Wounded and 
broken as I was, we faced each other two days later 
by arrangement in a field near the school. Our 
weapons were handkerchiefs with a marble securely 
tied in one corner. I was responsible for this mode 
of settling differences. It was a desperate combat, 
and afforded immense delight to the crowd of our 
school mates who had assembled to see the fun. We 
fought furiously for over half- an -hour, when my 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

opponent funked and bolted, and I at once took first 
place in the estimation of the whole school. Even the 
chief bully, a powerfully built young man about nine- 
teen, before whom all bowed, generously acknowledged 
my powers, and as he imperiously tendered me sixpence 
through his fag he declared with a lordly air of superi- 
ority : " Blowed if you ain't the toughest kid I've 
ever met in all my experience." At the same time he 
intimated that he would have to " knock some of the 
stuffing " out of me himself, or I should become too 
"cocky." I there and then challenged him, but with 
a display of scorn so intense that it nearly choked him, 
he replied " that he didn't fight with kids, and would 
kick me when it suited him." As he failed to carry out 
his threat I presume that it never did suit him. I 
may add that the life of Judas was made so miserable 
in the school that he ran away, returning to his home, 
somewhere near Macclesfield, and came back no more, 
for which we were all thankful. Although my tendency 
to break away from restraint was so pronounced, I was 
liked by the masters, and at times was accorded certain 
little privileges that made my class mates jealous. I 
remained at that establishment until I was well on in 
my fourteenth year, when an order came from my 
father, who was stationed in India, that I was to join 
him, with a view to completing my studies in India, 
and entering the service of the East India Company. 
Although I entertained the most devoted love and 
affection for my mother and sisters, I heard my 
father's orders with a delio:ht that knew no bounds. 
The separation from my family was a painful 

13 



Pases from an Adventurous Life 

wrench. But I was a boy, ardent, impulsive, and 
burning with a desire to travel, and so was not 
affected in the same degree as were those I was 
leavine behind. One of them I was never to see 
again. My second sister, poor dear soul, died during 
my absence. Her death affected me keenly, for we 
were strongly attached to each other. The ship I 
sailed in called at St Vincent, Cape de Verde Islands, 
and there, singularly enough, I had another escape from 
drowning. Being passionately fond of the water, I 
had become an excellent swimmer, as during my 
school days in Cheshire we were taken three times a 
week durine the summer to bathe in Rostherne Mere, 
and I challenged a young Portuguese engineer, who 
was going out to Bombay, to a trial of skill in the Bay 
of St Vincent. At first he treated me with scorn, but 
being mercilessly chaffed finally accepted my challenge, 
and while the ship was being provisioned seven or 
eight of us proceeded ashore, where I and my opponent 
undressed, and entered the sea. We were to swim 
out to a rock some distance from the shore, and back 
again, without resting. We had not proceeded far 
before those on shore raised a cry of "sharks." My 
companion immediately lost his presence of mind, and 
throwing his arms round my neck, we both sank. I 
managed to oet free, but he acrain seized me. Once 
more I shook him off, and as he seemed completely 
dazed I supported him as well as I could. An 
American man-of-war was in the bay, and some of 
her Bluejackets sprang into a boat alongside, and 
pulling with might and main, rescued us. I was very 

14 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

little the worse, but the poor engineer was almost in 
a state of collapse. As it turned out, the alarm of 
sharks was a false one, and as may be supposed it led 
to a good deal of angry feeling, as it had nearly cost 
us our lives. One conclusion I came to, however, was 
that I was not born to be drowned. We sailed from 
the island the following afternoon, and that very even- 
ing a fire broke out on board, and for a few hours we 
had rather an exciting time. However, we proceeded 
on our way, and the fire was subdued without much 
damage being done. 

I first set foot on Indian soil in Bombay, where my 
father had several friends. I remained a short time there, 
and then proceeded to Ceylon, where I spent a few 
days, and arrived in Calcutta in the early days of 1857. 
At that time I had not completed my fourteenth year. 
My father received me with every demonstration of 
delight and affection, and I remember well a remark 
he made to me. He seemed to be endowed with a 
prescience which, unhappily, was lacking in others who 
were content to muddle on in supreme indifference to 
the moan of the rising storm. " Boy, I am afraid you 
have come to India at a bad time," he said with sailor- 
like bluntness, " and it strikes me that before you 
leave you will have some exciting experiences." Then 
he added very solemnly: " God watch over you." 

At that early stage I did not understand to what he 
referred, but he soon made it clear, and succeeded in 
arousing my interest to a high pitch. He told me of 
the unrest that was manifesting itself amongst the 
natives, and how with blind fatuity Lord and Lady 

15 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

Cannino- refused to believe that anything' serious was 
likely to happen. Since those far-away days I have 
learnt much, but even now I am at a loss to under- 
stand how so able a man as Viscount Canning was 
unable to read the signs which were so plain to every- 
one else. 

As the student o( history knows, there had been 
much trouble about Oude, and after threatening long 
the John Company had taken over the administration 
of that province, deposed the old King, who had been 
brought to Calcutta, and was living" in semi-state at 
Garden Rcwch, a suburb three miles below the city, 
on what was then a beautiful part of the Hooghly. 
My father told me the story of Oude, and spoke with 
some concern about the deposed King being allowed 
so much freedom. 

Although I did not come to a full realisation at this 
time of the terrible danger that menaced the white 
people in India, 1 quite understood the probability of 
trouble, and experienced a sense of boyish elation at 
the prospect of seeing some real fighting. My father, 
a courageous and practical man, lost no time in teach- 
ing me how to handle a ritle and a revolver. He 
had been verv active with regartl to swelling the 
ranks oi' the volunteers, <uul by his energy anci 
exam[>le tried to inspire his friends to prepare for 
whatever might happen. That something would 
happen he was ctMuinced. 1 remember him saying- 
one night as he and a number of gentlemen, his 
guests, smoketl their cigars on the veranda after 
dinner: "If there is a shindy every white man will 

i6 



Padres from an Adventurous Life 

o 
liavc to face enormous odds, and pluck alone will 
save us." About the end of January or beginning 
of February we started on a tour up country, and, 
among- other places, we visited Cawnpore, where 
my father had niuncrous friends and acquaintances. 
During our stay in Cawnpore we were taken out 
to Bithoor, some miles from the town. This place 
was the residence of that most remarkable man, Nana 
Dhoondu Pant, who at a later stage was to become 
known for all time as " Nana Sahib," and to be 
execrated throughout the civilised world for his 
association with a series of atrocities of so horrible 
a nature that they have few parallels. The Nana 
believed, rightly or wrongly, that he had been badly 
treated by the Company, and he had sent a special 
emissary, one Azimoola, to England to try and get 
his wrongs redressed. I had the opportunity of seeing 
and conversing with the Nana for a short time, and 
as I was a fresh luigiish lad, just arrived from England, 
he affected to be much interested in me, and asked 
my father numerous questions. The man made a 
curious impression upon me. He was very pompous, 
exceedingly fat, with a suggestion in his walk, his 
actions, and his voice, of theatricality. He had intensely 
brilliant, restless eyes, that seemed to peer right through 
you, but he lacked the ponderous solemnity so charac- 
teristic of most Eastern potentates. He appeared to 
be particularly lively and energetic, with a perpetual 
smile on his fat, swarthy face. His lips, when parted, 
revealed the most perfect teeth, the whiteness of which 
was enhanced by his olive complexion. This strange 
B 17 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

being, whose correct name was Dandhu Pant, was an 
adopted son of the ex-peshwa of the Mahrattas, Baji 
Rao. The Peshwa, or ruler, of Puna was deposed by the 
East India Company, and allowed to live at Bithoor, 
with an annuity of ^80,000 a year. He died in 1851, 
and the adopted son. Nana Sahib, succeeded to his 
wealth and estates ; the annuity, however, was discon- 
tinued by the Company, and this embittered the Nana. 
He had a factotum known as Azimoola, a clever, 
ambitious Brahmin, who was sent to England by the 
Nana to enter into negotiations with the directors of 
the John Company in London, and, I believe, to try 
and influence certain Members of Parliament in his 
master's favour. I never met Azimoola, but I have 
always heard that he was an exceedingly handsome 
man, with the craft and cunning of the evil one. His 
mission was a failure ; but he managed to make himself 
3. persona grata with a section of fashionable society, 
and for a time was lionised, and he became the cause 
of a good deal of scandal. He stayed in Brighton for 
a time, and while there made the acquaintance of a 
beautiful young English lady of title, whom he all but 
persuaded to return to India with him. Fortunately, 
his villainy was discovered in time, the lady was re- 
moved from his sphere of influence, and no doubt 
saved from a dreadful fate. 

Azimoola went back to India by way of the Crimea 
during the war ; and it is a matter of history now that 
he represented to the Nana that the English were 
being severely beaten by the Russians, and the Queen 
had no troops available for India. Of course, when I 

18 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

knew Nana Sahib, no breath of suspicion had attached 
itself to him. He was regarded as an Indian gentle- 
man of wealth and culture, and was exceedingly popular 
with the English Colony, while his palace at Bithoor 
was always open to them. He lived in state, and one 
of his weaknesses was an English coach and four-in- 
hand, which he drove with great skill. As a boy, I 
was much struck with him. I can scarcely explain 
why ; perhaps it was that he had a marked personality 
that appealed to me. Unless it was among those in 
his intimate confidence, no living soul in Cawnpore or 
elsewhere could have imagined that this remarkable 
man, who made himself so affable and courteous to 
everyone, was destined to write his name on the pages 
of history as one of the most bloodthirsty scoundrels 
the world has produced. 

When my father and I left Cawnpore we paid a 
flying visit to Delhi, and to Meerut. which two or 
three months later was to run red with the blood of 
slaughtered white people. 

On returning to Calcutta we found that the tension 
had increased. Mystery was in the air. Men met at 
each other's houses, and seemed to talk with bated 
breath. Everyone was afraid to express just the 
thoughts that were in his mind. Ladies had become 
very nervous, and mothers were afraid to lose sight of 
their children. All the vessels that left the river carried 
immense numbers of passengers. Men who could 
afford it sent their women folk and children home, or 
at anyrate to places of safety ; but there were many 
notable examples of devotion on the part of women 

19 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

who refused to go while their loved ones were menaced 
with danger. The most extraordinary rumours were 
current, and it was difficult to sift the true from the 
false. It must not be supposed that there was anything 
like actual panic at this time, but people were impressed 
with a sense of impending calamity, and had lost faith 
in the loyalty of the native population and the native 
troops. There were signs, which those who knew 
how to read them, justified disquietude. House 
servants were less deferential ; " Palki " bearers 
haggled more keenly for backsheesh, and when refused 
became impertinent. The want of respect by the 
traders in the bazaars for white people was very 
noticeable. And sailors, who had indulged a little too 
freely in liquor, were frequently set upon by natives, 
and beaten. In my own case an incident occurred 
which, though trifling, was considered a sign of the 
times, as it was so absolutely unusual ; hence my ex- 
cuse for mentioning it. A cousin of mine, an officer 
on board one of the P. and O. boats lying at Garden 
Reach, and I, went one evening to sup with some 
friends in the Chowringhee district. It was rather 
late when we left, and in passing a street corner we 
came upon a group of natives in animated conversa- 
tion. In ordinary circumstances they would have 
deferentially moved, and given us the right of way, for 
they completely blocked the path. My cousin, a 
vigorous, powerful young fellow, walked boldly into 
them, when one of their number with a lurch of the 
shoulders endeavoured to upset him, but in an instant 
a well-directed blow from my relative's powerful fist 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

sent the fellow sprawling. For some moments things 
looked ugly, but no doubt something in our attitude 
and manner caused them to think twice before attack- 
ing us, although they were more than five to one, so 
they contented themselves with pouring out volleys of 
abuse ; but as hard words break no bones, we were not 
affected, and pursued our way unmolested, I refer to 
this trifling incident merely to show the temper of the 
natives at the time, as well as their innate cowardice. 
We were unarmed, and had that rabble attacked us 
I am quite sure we should have had a bad time 
of it. It was the pluck of my cousin that saved 
the situation. When my father heard of our little 
adventure he was rather concerned, and cautioned me 
against groincr out alone at niofht. And then, beinor a 
brave man himself, and not liking the idea of his son 
showing any deficiency in that respect, he added, "or 
if you do, you must have some means of protecting 
yourself in case you are assaulted," The following 
day he presented me with a beautiful Malacca cane 
that was capable of being almost bent double without 
breaking. The head of it was a leaden ball weighing 
probably three or four ounces. It was neatly worked 
over with fine silver wire, and securely attached to the 
cane, which was thus capable of becoming a very 
powerful weapon in the hands of a determined man. 
He counselled me only to use it in self-defence, but to 
use it vigorously if occasion arose. 

One such occasion at least did arise, as I shall 
presently relate, and to the possession of that cane I 
probably owed my life. 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

To dwell on all the exciting details of those 
electrical days in Calcutta would expand this volume 
to undue length. My own personal affairs of that 
time were too unimportant to be worthy of mention 
here, beyond a brief statement that I was continuing 
my studies with a view to entering the Company's 
service as soon as an opportunity occurred, and 
under my father's instructions I was well drilled in 
the use of the gun and revolver. He had a very 
assorted lot of arms : Brown Besses, the new Enfield 
rifle, cavalry carbines, old matchlocks, revolvers, tul- 
wars and swords of various kinds. I became a crack 
shot with both the revolver and the rifle, and swelled 
with a sense of self-importance as I pictured myself 
" fighting against fearful odds for Home and Country." 

In order that my time might be fully occupied I 
was placed with a firm of engineers at Garden Reach, 
and subsequently transferred to the Railway En- 
gineering Department at Howrah. 

As the weeks passed the unrest increased, and Lord 
Canning became more and more unpopular. He was 
accused of being too sympathetic with the natives ; 
and though there had been incipient signs of mutiny 
here and there, it was believed that he was averse to 
taking any vigorous measures to guard against a 
possible outbreak on a large scale. At length came 
the news of the fatal loth of May in Meerut. I think 
it is not an exaggerated expression to say that the 
white population of Calcutta was staggered. And 
when later it became publically known that General 
Hewett, who was in command of the troops at Meerut, 

22 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

had shown hesitancy and even cowardice in dealing 
with the mutineers, who in consequence had escaped 
to Delhi, there was something like a howl of rage. 
Men clenched their teeth, and muttered under their 
breath. Nor could it be wondered at, for the reports 
said that white women and children had been outraged 
and butchered with the utmost barbarity. 

There is no denying that gloom and despondency 
fell upon Calcutta society, and no attempt was made 
to conceal the indignation that was felt against Lord 
Canning. This indignation increased to red-hot 
anger when he passed at one sitting of the Legislative 
Council for India what became known as " The Press- 
Gagging Bill. " Looking back now over half-a-century, 
there is no doubt the " Bill " was a wise one, but it 
was bitterly resented at the time, and meetings were 
held to protest against it. 

One day, two or three weeks after the outbreak at 
Meerut, a rumour ran through Calcutta that a plot 
had been discovered having for its object the 
massacring of all the Europeans and the plunder of 
the town. My father, who had taken a most active 
interest in the volunteer movement, and showed him- 
self keenly alive to contingencies, despatched me with 
an important letter to the gentleman in charge of the 
Botanic Gardens on the other side of the Hooghly, 
opposite Garden Reach. This gentleman, whose 
name has, unfortunately, escaped my memory, was a 
close personal friend, and as he lived in an isolated 
part the letter was one of warning, and conveyed a 
request that he and his wife and family would come 

23 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

to Calcutta, and be my father's guests until the 
danger had passed. My instructions were to be back 
before it was dark, "Take your cane with you, and 
keep your eyes open," said my father as I was 
leaving. 

I went down to Garden Reach in a palanquin. 
There I engaged the services of a dinghy waller to 
row me across the river, which at that part was, I 
think, about a mile and a half broad. Asking me to 
excuse him for a few minutes, this fellow went to a 
group of natives who were squatted on the shore near 
one of the landing piers of the P. and O. Company. 
When he came back he was followed by two stalwart 
youths, whom he represented as his sons, and he 
begged that I would allow them a passage in the 
dinghy, as they had some business to transact on the 
other side of the river. The request seemed such an 
innocent one that I readily consented. For the 
information of those who have never been in India, I 
may explain that a dinghy is a round-bottomed boat, 
with a rising stern, where the sculler stands, and 
vigorously plies a long flat-bladed oar. after the 
manner of a gondolier. About the centre of the boat 
is an arched bamboo shelter for the passengers. 

We had not proceeded very far before my suspicions 
were aroused that there was some mischief brewing. 
The tide was running down — indeed it may be said 
to race down in the Hooghly — and suddenly the old, 
white-bearded dinghy waller ceased sculling, with the 
result that the boat began to spin merrily along with 
the powerful current. I ordered him to continue at 

24 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

his work ; whereupon he said something in patois 
which I did not understand, to the two young fellows. 
Then one of them, speaking in quite good EngHsh, 
asked me what I was ofoino- to the Botanic Gardens 
for. With red-hot indignation I told him not to 
insult me by daring to inquire into my business ; 
whereupon he said he must know my business, and, 
moreover, intended to have very good backsheesh from 
me. I grasped the situation at once. The three 
rascals were in league ; their object was to rob and 
probably kill me. Gripping the ferrule end of my 
Malacca cane, I turned angrily to the old waller, for 
the boat was being rapidly carried into a lonely reach 
of the river, and commanded him to resume sculling. 
He grinned mockingly ; then I was alarmed by the 
youth who had so far remained silent fumbling in his 
cummerbund, and suddenly producing a long, thin 
knife. Before he could use it, if he really intended 
to do so, the lead knob of my cane struck him with 
the quickness of a cobra on the arm ; the knife went 
hurtling out of his hand, and fell into the water. The 
other fellow, presumably his brother, made a spring at 
me, but the business end of the cane caught him full 
on his shaven pate, and he pitched face downward 
into the bottom of the boat. The old rascal at the 
stern began to blubber, piteously begged of me to 
spare his sons, commenced to use his oar with 
tremendous vigour, and soon the dinghy was going 
up stream again. Blood was flowing from the 
still form at the bottom of the boat ; the other 
fellow was howling with pain and rage, and holding 

25 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

his arm. I returned to my seat, but never for an 
instant relaxed my vigilance, and after what seemed 
to me a very long time the dinghy grated on the 
shingle at the spot where I wished to land. I stepped 
out very deliberately, and turning to the old man, told 
him that he was to remain there until I came back, he 
and his sons, and that he would take me across the 
river again. I threatened that if he didn't obey I 
would report him to the authorities in Calcutta, and 
charge the three of them with conspiring to murder 
me. I assured him that the whole lot of them would 
be speedily hanged, and their bodies thrown to the 
jackals. With many a bob and salaam the wily old 
villain promised me that my high commands would be 
obeyed, but I fancy he grinned derisively at my empty 
threat. I walked away, delivered my letter, and 
spent a considerable time in the Gardens. I did not 
mention a word of my little adventure to the gentleman 
I had gone to see, as I felt rather frightened myself at 
having taken the law into my own hands. He wanted 
me to remain there for the night, but as I had my 
father's orders to return, I declined, and he walked 
down to the shore with me. The dinghy waller was 
waiting, but his sons had disappeared, and the blood 
had been washed away. When we put off from the 
shore I demanded to know why he had allowed his 
sons to go off He whined, and said he could not 
help it. He assured me they were afraid to return 
with me, as they thought I meant to kill them ; conse- 
quently they had run away, and were hidden in the 
jungle. No doubt the rascal lied, and he himself had 

26 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

sent them away> fearing that I should have them 
arrested. It was quite dark when we reached our 
starting-place. I gave the boatman his bare fare and 
not a pice more, although he begged very hard for 
backsheesh. I never heard nor saw anything of him 
nor his sons again. I did not tell my father what had 
happened, for some time afterwards, as I was afraid he 
would stop my going out alone. When I did inform 
him he remarked drily : " I thought that Malacca cane 
might come in useful. You stick to it, my boy." 

Things did not quiet down in Calcutta, and one 
night everyone was on the alert, for a report had 
spread that all the white people were to be massacred. 
Many of the women and children were sent on board 
the ships in the river ; every man and boy armed 
himself to the teeth, and waited with grim resolve. 
I did "sentry go" for hours in the compound of my 
father's house — on my shoulder a Brown Bess gun 
loaded with round ball, an old revolver in a holster 
strapped round my waist, and my beloved cane stuck 
in my belt. It chanced that we had a military friend 
staying with us, a Captain Penson, who was on his 
way up country to join his regiment, having been home 
on furlough. He and I were great chums. He came 
to me in the compound, and asked if I would like to 
go with him to Garden Reach ; " I believe something 
is going to happen," he added. I expressed my 
eagerness to accompany him, little dreaming that I 
was to be a witness of the dramatic arrest of the King 
of Oude. I saw the deposed monarch brought out of 
his palace, placed in a carriage, which was then sur- 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

roiiiulcd l)y soldicTs with WwA bayonets, and conveyed 
to I'Orl William, followed by two or threi' hundred 
cavalrynu:n, i'lu; wholo business was conducted so 
expeditiously and sc;cretly that tew j)eoi)le outside of 
military circles knew anything about it. bo tlu> Kino- 
it was an absolute surprise, anil though lor some 
mom(Mils ther(^ were si^ns ot resistance amon^ some 
of his followers, the hopelessness t)f the j)osition was 
soon m.ule ap|)ariiil by the overwhelming military 
force. I'he nit^ht passed, but nothing elsc^ ha|)pened, 
and tlu" ne.\t day the townspeople felt that they had 
hvrw unnecessarily alarmed. They were to learn 
later, however, that a deep laid plot for wholesale 
massacre had only been frustrated by the alertness 
and tletermination of thi* i'.uropeans. Armed sailors 
from the ships patrolled the slri^etsall nioht, and these 
fellows, who wi're " s|)oilino lor a ht;ht," inspired the 
natives with a wlu>Iesome dread. 

As Cai)tain Tenson and I returnetl to m) lather's 
house about two o'clock in the mt)rninLi we passed one 
of thesi> naval [mtrols, and as the youno- officer in 
connnand greeted us, he remarked : " 1 am afraid there 
is not L^oino" to be any fightino" after all." The clay 
following ilu're was a s^reat surprise in slori\ when it 
becann" publiclv known th.u the Kim; ol Ouile was 
a {)risoni'r in bOrt William. It a{)peared that the 
Ciovernment had received information that some of the 
Kind's followiTs had been trying to bribe the sentries 
of the i'(Mt to i^ive tluMU eiUiance at a certain date, 
anil helj) them to turn the onus upon the city. b'ortun- 
ately, one of the Queen's regiments had just arrived 

28 



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from either China or Ceylon. I ihink it was froni 
Ceylon. A strong- clelachnient ol this regiment was 
marched down to Garden Reach h*om the Fort, and 
surrounded the King's residence. The commanding 
officer, armed with a letter from the Governor-General, 
entered, and, before resistance could be offered, the 
King and a large number of his suite were arrested, and 
conveyed to the iw)rt. I lis arrest on that nuiuorable 
night was one ol the most dramatic incidents ol the 
Mutiny. It made a dee[) impression on me, as it was 
altogether a weird and strange scene. I subsequently 
saw the old King several times in the I'Ort. He was 
a tall, Ime-looking man, with a long, llowing white 
beard and white hair. At one time he must have 
been a handsome man, but wIumi 1 knew him he was 
haggard and care-worn, with a mournful e.xpression 
of the eyes that I can never forget. Me felt no doubt 
that as far as he was concerned the game was up, and 
that he had [)layed his last card. The authorities had 
been too sharp lor him. 

In the course of September my father suggested 
that I should pay a visit to Hombay to see some old 
friends of his who had been living for some time at 
Malabar 1 I ill ; they werc^ about to take their departure 
from India and return to iMigland. 1 arrived in 
Bombay (it was my second visit) about the end of 
September, little imagining that I was to become an 
eye-witness of a still more tragic scene — namely, the 
execution of two mutineers by blowing them from 
guns. It happened that one of the native regiments 
had mutinied ; the ringleaders were tried, and two of 

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the worst were scmiUmuxhI to dcatli. The scmUcmicc was 
c.'irricd out in the s(|uar(; of P'ort (itH)rge on the 15th 
ol October. It was (|uite e.\j)i'ctetl tliat a desperate 
attempt would he made l)y ihi" native population to 
rescue the prisoners. C-onsecjuently the ni^iu lu'lore 
an intimation was (juietly conveyed to the lun^opean 
residents that all who could do so were to arm and 
present lliemselves at the I'Ort, and thus help to over- 
awe tin- populace. The j^entleman I was stayino- 
with, a Mr Tonkin, had, 1 l)elieve, held some official 
position in the Comj)any's service, ami Uc readily 
obeyed the ri"(|uest. taking me with him, for 1 assured 
him I was an c^xcelU'iU shot both with [)istol and i;"un, 
havino practised tiaily in Calcutta. lie furnished me 
with a revolver aiul a musket, and we marched into 
the l'\)rl with a mnnber of sailors who had been re- 
(juisitioneil from the various ships in tlie iiarbour ; they 
were armed with all sorts and varieti(\s of weapons. 
If it had come to a row there is no doubt that 
every white man, whatever his weapon, could have 
been trustinl to i^ivi' a oood account of himself, for 
everyone was burniiii; to avenge the awful atrocities 
committed by the mutineers on defenceless women 
and children in \'arious j)arts o[ the country. Ihit no 
row took placid ; tlu;re were nuMiaces, not loud, but 
deep ; the people, however, w(>re afraid of the handful 
of determined b'erinohees, whose prowess they knew 
only loo well. Hesides there were cannon loaded to 
the muz/les with i;rape-shot, and orin\ runners ready 
with [)ortdh"es, and pantino" for a word of command 
which, if given, would have led to the square being 

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covered witli dead. 1 lie two j^iiiis which were lo l>e 
used for the execution were phieed in llie eentn; of 
tli(; S(ni;ire. I^ach |)ri.s()n(r had his hands laslicd 
tojj^ether in front of him. Then he was placed with 
his back to the ^un, and a roj)c was |)ass((l round liis 
arms and round the niu/./Ic of the 5.'un, where it was 
securely fastened. One ol the two men was a fellow 
of splendid physi(|ue, and when tlu- sentence; was 
being read his face was a study in defiance and hatred. 
But I noticed that, as th(; awful moment drew near, 
his form seemed lo wilt as though his nerve had failed 
him. At the word of conmiand, " hire," there was a 
great burst of flame, a dense v(jluine (jf smoke, and 
a shower of human remains. The effect on the 
natives was to utterly overawe and cow them, and yet 
for many days afterwards the J'airopeans had to keep 
on the alert, and no white man went to his bed with- 
out surrounding hims(;lf with a little armoury ready 
for instant use. 

I returned to (Calcutta about the (Mid of Nov(;mber, 
and found my father muc:h depressed, for .so many of 
his friends had been killed ; amongst them was a Mr 
Ronald, a magistrate somewhere; up country. I 
gathentd that this gentleman had been most barbar- 
ously put to d(;ath, and mutilated in a shocking 
maniK.T. It was about this time;, too, that the wife; of 
an officer was our guest. She h;i,d come from Madras, 
and was going up country to join her husband, who 
was dangerously ill in hospital. I do not reniemlj(;r 
where it was, but, d(;spit(; the wishes of all her friends, 
this d(;voted wife was determined to be at her 

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husband's side no matter what the dangrer mioht be. 
She started on her journey. Three or four days later 
she was brought back in a dying condition. She had 
been horribly outraged by some fiends in human 
shape, and one of her breasts had been hacked off 
with a sword. She only lived a few hours after her 
return. My poor father was prostrated with grief ; 
and somehow I felt as if I were no longer a boy, but 
a grave man. The news that came by every post 
from the disturbed districts was heart-breaking. 
Business went on in Calcutta as usual, but it was 
easy to see how sorrow and suffering were written on 
the faces of the white people. There in our midst 
was sickness of all kinds : cholera, dysentery, fevers. 
Death was everywhere. It was all too sorrowful and 
too awful for words. Our circle of friends and ac- 
quaintances was terribly thinned, and we went to 
funeral after funeral in the Circular Road Cemetery. 
Some dear one was stricken down suddenly in the 
morning, perhaps ; at sunset was buried. No wonder 
that our nerves were constantly on the rack. My 
father grew grey and old before my eyes, yet he 
bore up bravely and nobly. As for myself, I had 
risen to the situation. I fully comprehended the 
dangers. I was shocked by the horrors. Every 
morning I crossed the river to my duties at Howrah, 
and returned to my father's house at night, always 
with a vague dread that during my absence some- 
thing had happened. And when my father said in 
the morning, " Good-bye, boy. God bless you," I 
understood what was in his mind. He knew that 

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there was the possibiHty of our not meeting again ; 
death came so suddenly and so unexpectedly at that 
time. I always carried a revolver with me, but was 
careful to conceal it ; and I was never without my 
trusty Malacca cane. Though it was not so much the 
risk of being attacked and murdered by treacherous 
natives that troubled us, I fancy, as fear of the more 
subtle enemies, cholera and dysentery. However, I 
never once had a day's illness, though I was laid up 
for something like a fortnight through being bitten in 
the ankle by a huge centipede which got into my bed. 
The foot and leg became very much swollen, and were 
painful for a time. That, however, was a mere trifling 
detail, and caused no concern. Soon afterwards an 
incident, slightly more exciting, happened. 

And old friend of my father's, a Mr Martin or 
Fenton — I forget which — who was an inspector of 
telegraphs, was going to make a journey of inspection 
of the line connecting Calcutta with Sagar Island, at 
the mouth of the Hooghly, where there was a station 
for signalling the arrival of ships, whether outward 
or homeward bound. It was, in my time, a sparsely 
populated district, very jungly, very swampy, and 
deadly with miasma. Mr Fenton was going as a 
matter of duty. I begged to be allowed to accompany 
him as a matter of pleasure. I was told there was 
excellent sport to be had : tigers, wild cats, snakes, 
wild fowl galore, and there was also just a bare 
possibility that one might enjoy a little adventure. 
It was too tempting to be resisted, and I pleaded to 
my father, who opposed some objections at first, but 
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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

soon yielded, as he was too brave a man himself to 
prevent his son enjoying an outing because there 
happened to be a risk, so slight that it seemed hardly 
worth while taking into consideration. Mr Fenton 
was delighted. He was quite used to lonely 
journeyings, but, nevertheless, enjoyed company 
when he could have it. Our tramp was along the 
line of the telegraph posts from Calcutta towards 
the swamps of the Sunderbunds. We set off in the 
hottest of weather. Our servants consisted of a 
babarchy (cook) and two coolies to carry our folding 
beds and other belongings. We had several firearms 
and plenty of ammunition. Although the heat was a 
little trying, the journey south was pleasant, and we 
got some good shooting. One day, when we were 
far to the south of Diamond Harbour, we came upon 
a disused hut standing in a lonely and swampy region. 
The hut, which contained two apartments, was built 
of mud and covered with a roof of thatch made from 
paddy straw. We decided to spend the night there, 
and the coolies were ordered to rig up our beds. 
Then Mr Fenton and I went off into the swamp in 
search of teal or wild duck for supper. We reached 
a tank (pond) of beautifully clear-looking water, and 
decided to bathe. When Mr Fenton came out of 
the water he complained of feeling faint and cold. 
However, a little brandy seemed to put him all right, 
and having secured a couple of fine birds we returned 
to the hut, as it was getting dark. We ate our curry 
and rice by the light of a cocoanut lamp — that is, 
a portion of a cocoanut shell filled with cocoanut oil, 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

into which a thin cotton wick is inserted. Then as 
there was nothing to do, and we were very tired, we 
turned in. We found that the old thatch was a nest 
of cobras ; the reptiles were on the prowl for rats, and 
occasionally a snake and a rat flopped on to the 
earthen floor and made an infernal din. Neverthe- 
less, I managed to go off into a sound sleep, from 
which I was ultimately awakened by hearing my 
name called and Mr Fenton orroanincr. Fororetting; 
all about the mosquito net that surrounded my little 
bed, I sprang out, dragging the net with me, and 
heedless of snakes, rushed to Mr Fenton's bed. By 
the feeble light of the cocoanut lamp I saw my friend 
drawn up in agony and looking ghastly ill. He told 
me he thought he had cholera. He had awakened 
the servants, who were sleeping at the door of the 
hut, but as soon as they realised the nature of the 
illness, like all their class, the cowards had bolted, 
leaving the sahibs to do the best they could. Mr 
Fenton requested me to fasten his leather belt, con- 
taining his money, round my body ; secure his notebook 
and papers, and with as much ammunition and as 
many firearms as I could carry, proceed with all speed 
to the nearest telegraph station, which, if I remember, 
was at Diamond Harbour, and telegraph for assistance. 
In half-an-hour I was ready, and very reluctantly left 
him ; but he would not hear of my staying, and urged 
me to go with all possible speed. He assured me 
I could do nothing, and if he died it was certain I 
should be murdered for the sake of the arms and the 
money, as our servants would be on the watch waiting 

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Paees from an Adventurous Life 

to waylay me. They knew only too well that a 
cholera patient hadn't much chance, especially situated 
as Mr Fenton was — that is, with little hope of succour 
arriving in time. Cholera, as a rule, ran a terribly 
rapid course, and a patient often died within two or 
three hours of the first symptoms declaring themselves. 
It was pitch dark when I left the hut. I had two 
revolvers, my own and Fenton's, as he did not wish 
his to fall into the hands of the natives in the event of 
his death. In addition, I carried my father's Enfield 
rifle and a cavalry carbine, so that with this armoury 
and a fair supply of ammunition I was pretty well 
loaded. It was rather a weird position to be in. The 
darkness was intense ; I was ignorant of the country ; 
there were no roads, and on my celerity my friend's 
life probably depended. He had cautioned me to 
follow the telegraph poles. This I did for a time, 
until I found myself floundering in very swampy 
ground, and I struck off at an angle that I imagined 
would take me clear of the swamp. From that 
moment I got hopelessly lost. I wandered into dense 
jungle, and at last went sprawling over a fallen tree. 
I am afraid my boyish ardour was a little damped, and 
when on trying to gather myself together I made the 
discovery that I had injured my ankle, I must, in 
the interests of truth, confess that I gave vent to 
the feelings that surged within me by means of a big 
D. In my fall several of my belongings and I had 
parted company, and as I had come away without 
matches, it was hopeless to try and recover them in 
the dark. Nor was it advisable, having regard to 

36 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

lurking snakes, which might be indined to resent any 
intrusion on their privacy, to go searching about on 
hands and knees. There was no alternative therefore, 
but to wait until the day dawned. I sat on the fallen 
tree, listening to the voices of the jungle and thinking 
many things. My foot was exceedingly painful. I 
had also bruised my arms and elbows, and done 
sundry other trifling damage, which made me some- 
what uncomfortable. I tried to feel very brave, but I 
am afraid the trial was a wretched failure. It seemed 
to me as I sat there in my solitude that the world was 
wrapped in eternal night, and there would be no more 
day. It was certainly one of the longest nights I ever 
remember to have passed. However, daylight asserted 
itself at last. By that time my ankle was swollen to 
twice its normal size, and when I tried to walk the 
pain was excruciating. There were no signs or 
sounds of habitation or human life. To remain there 
was out of the question. I therefore picked up my 
scattered oddments, and limped off. I was pretty well 
sprinkled with blood, as in my fall I had barked my 
forehead, and the scratch had bled freely. My rate of 
progress was exceedingly slow owing to my injured 
foot, and the pain was so intense that I had to make 
long pauses. By noon I was fairly exhausted, what 
with pain, heat, hunger, and thirst, and I went to sleep 
on a slab of rock. I must have slept a considerable 
time, for when I awoke the sun was well down. I felt 
refreshed, though my foot was exceedingly stiff. But 
I hobbled, limped, and hopped along in the direction 
I thought I ought to go, although I couldn't see the 

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telegraph poles. As the sun was on the point of 
setting I came upon a very small native village on 
the edore of a road. A number of natives were 
squatted on the ground eating their evening meal. 
A few cows were hitched up to a rail, and had 
evidently just been milked, for two or three women 
were walking away with earthenware pots on their 
heads. On the around near the men were several 
brass lotahs of water. I was parched with thirst ; 
my tongue seemed too big for my mouth. Knowing 
that the natives would consider their food polluted if 
I went too near it, I asked them from a respectful 
distance to give me some water or milk, for which I 
would pay handsomely. They refused, and told me 
that a hundred yards or so farther along the road 
there was a dawk house (a travellers' rest), but in my 
condition I was not disposed to drag myself along for 
another hundred yards without first quenching my 
thirst. I therefore took from my pocket five rupees, 
placed them on the ground, told the natives to send 
one of their number with a lotah of milk and a lotah 
of water and the coins would be theirs, and I would 
add another rupee to pay for the lotah, which, of course, 
I should pollute by drinking from. They refused, and 
made use of an insulting expression, so gripping my 
rifle menacingly I limped to the nearest lotah, and 
poured its contents down my throat. There was a 
tremendous hubbub. The men rose in a very excited 
state, and seemed disposed to attack me, but evidently 
thought better of it, and tossing them two rupees, I 
went off. I found the dawk house, a ramshackle, 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

tumble-down old place, with the usual veranda 
surrounding it. A very old man was in charge, 
and I at once ordered him to procure me some food 
and drink with all possible despatch, if he didn't wish 
me to shoot him. He went out, and returned in about 
ten minutes or so with some o-hee. rice and native 
sweetmeats, and from a cupboard in the house pro- 
duced a bottle of Bass's ale and a tin of bouille beef; 
the latter, however, could not be opened, as we lacked 
a proper tin opener. I broke every blade in a pocket- 
knife I carried, but failed to oet at the contents of the 
tin. and so perforce had to content myself with the 
rice. ghee, and sweetmeats, washing them down with 
the beer. Then the old man rubbed my foot with 
some oil or ointment he had procured, whereby the pain 
was considerably eased. After that I dismissed him 
for the night, and having a suspicion that the villagers 
might go for me. I barricaded myself in as well as I 
could. In the guest-chamber was a charpoy, but no 
bedding of any kind ; a chair or two and a table. I 
did not remove any of my clothing, and resolved not 
to sleep. My resolve, however, was hard to keep, and 
I must have dozed, for I suddenly awoke to a con- 
sciousness that somebody was trying to open the 
jalousie, and I heard voices speaking in whispers. 
I seized a revolver, and waited. There was no longer 
room to doubt that an attempt was being made to 
break into the house. I therefore let bang at the 
jalousie. There was a cry. and that was followed 
by a howl ot rage from several throats, and cries of 
Alaro, maro, which meant that I was to be killed. As 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

I had no desire to be killed just then, and having no 
idea of the numbers I might have to encounter, I 
deemed discretion the better part of valour, and as 
the rascals were batterino- on the front door I made 
my way out at the back, but before I left the house I 
sent an Enfield bullet through the door. What the 
effect of the shot was I never knew. Under the 
cover of the darkness I got out into the jungle, and 
though I could only limp along painfully, I determined 
to show figrht if I had been followed. There is no 
doubt, however, that the cowards on finding that the 
English boy was not trapped, as they believed was 
the case, did not care to risk their skins so long as he 
was possessed of powder and bullets. I managed 
ultimately to reach the road, and followed the 
telegraph posts until they led into the jungle again, 
when I had a rest until daylight, and soon after came 
to the telegraph station, a sort of bungalow on piles 
in the jungle. Assistance was speedily on its way to 
Mr Fenton, who, so far from being dead, was found 
very much alive. It turned out that he had not been 
attacked with cholera, but severe colic, probably the 
result of bathing when in an exhausted condition. 
From some drugs he carried in his little medicine 
chest he had been able to get relief. In the morning, 
when his servants crept back, expecting no doubt to 
find him dead, and counting on the plunder they would 
share, they were convinced of his liveliness by the 
whackinCT he o-ave them with a stout cane. After I 
left him he was just as anxious about me as I was 
about him. But when we subsequently came together 

40 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

aeain in Calcutta we could afford to laugrh at the inci- 
dent. My little holiday certainly had not been a dull 
one, and but for my unlucky tumble I should have 
enjoyed the adventure, such as it was. 

After considerable delay I received the appoint- 
ment I had so long been looking forward to in the 
Company's service, and was at once sent to the great 
gun foundry at Cossipore. At this place, apart from 
the casting of big guns, the Enfield rifle bullets were 
made. The bullet was a conical one with a hollow 
base, in the side of which were four nicks. The 
hollow was filled with a boxwood plug, so that when 
the bullet was fired the plug caused the base to split 
and open where the nicks were, with the result that 
it was capable of producing a frightful wound. The 
boxwood plugs were made and fitted at Dum Dum, 
where the percussion caps and cartridges were pre- 
pared. The bullets, packed in square boxes, were 
sent from Cossipore to Dum Dum by bullock waggon 
with an armed escort, and I was often told off to 
go with the waggons, and bring back the necessary 
signed receipts for delivery. I used to feel very im- 
portant at such times, and often longed to see a troop 
of mutineers sweeping down upon us, so that we 
micrht have shown them the stuff we were made of. 
Fortunately for me, no doubt, my wishes were not 
gratified, for never a rebel ventured to show his nose. 
Nevertheless, I managed to get a little excitement, 
what with fights with natives in the foundry, a narrow 
escape from drowning again by being capsized in the 
river from the dingy during a bore {a huge wave that 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

runs up at certain seasons), and other trifling mishaps, 
from which I manaoed to emercje with a whole skin. 

As I cannot bring myself to believe that my further 
doings in India can have the slightest interest for my 
readers, I will refrain from reference to them. Had 
I been a little older 1 might have had a chance of 
distinguishing myself. That I did not do so was not 
my fault ; it was my misfortune — I could not help my 
youthfulness. Nor can my views or opinions of the 
causes that led to the Mutiny, and of the means that 
were taken to suppress it, have the slightest value. 
But I would venture to remark that the criticisms of 
certain Members of Parliament during the debates 
that took place in 185S filled the Europeans in India 
with disgust. Two names at least were never men- 
tioned without anger. They were General Thompson, 
Member for Bradford, and Mr Rich, Member for 
Richmond in Yorkshire. The former referred to 
the shootinq; of the sons of the treacherous Kino- of 
Delhi by Hodson as one " of the foulest murders 
and atrocities recorded in human history"; while 
Mr Rich said he believed that the reports of cruel- 
ties and mutilations by the insurgents were exaggera- 
tions, or altogether without foundation. There is not 
a man who knows from actual experience what the 
state of native feeling was in those days but will 
justify Hodson's act ; while Mr Rich's aspersions on 
the honesty of those whose duty it was to report 
thinei^s as thev saw them, was a wicked libel. When I 
think of Havelock's forced marches to Cawnpore to 
try and save the victims of Nana Sahib's lust and 

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cruelty ; of General Wheeler's splendid heroism ; of 
the horrors of Meerut, the hideous massacres at 
Jhansie ; of the heroism and sufferings during the 
wonderful defence of Lucknow ; of the thousands of 
gently nurtured ladies who were outraged and 
murdered in India, and the fiendish slaughter of 
little children, I blush to think that anyone owning 
allegiance to the great Queen of our magnificent 
Empire should have doubted the honour and truth- 
fulness of men who shed their blood and gave their 
lives to save India. And they did save it : they fought 
against overwhelming odds, they suffered and died, 
but the Britisher's grit told in the end. Generations 
yet unborn will read of those dark days, and of the 
supreme heroism displayed by all who held the 
honour of the Empire dear, with pride. The story 
of the defence of Cawnpore alone is a story of 
splendid valour, and I pity the boy or the man who 
can read it without the blood quickening in his veins. 
Cawnpore is a great, thriving town now, but the 
magnificent monument over the ghastly well where 
lie " A great company of Christian people, mostly 
women and children," tells of a tragedy so horrible 
that as long as the world lasts it will never be for- 
ootten. If the Little Eno^landers, who alwavs be- 
lieve their own country is in the wrong, would but 
study the lurid history of the Indian Mutiny, with its 
thrilling episodes of individual heroism and devotion, 
and its records of supreme human agony and sufter- 
inor, and of the thousands of oentle women and inno- 
cent children who fell victims to the lust and fiendish 

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brutality of the natives, it would surely develop in 
them a broader and more patriotic frame of mind. 
I wish that my experiences had been such that I 
might have been able to write a footnote or two to 
history, but it was not to be. The dissolution of the 
East India Company's rule in India was an unfortun- 
ate thing for me personally. For private reasons I 
returned to England towards the end of 1S59 for a 
short spell, coming home in a sailing ship which 
carried invalids and a number of time-expired men. 
There was much sickness and many deaths. A 
funeral at sea is always a very impressive ceremony, 
and we had many ; sometimes there were two and 
three deaths in the course of a week, and the sad office 
of committing the bodies to the deep threw a gloom 
over the whole ship. We w^ent into St Helena for 
water and provisions ; and in view of the recent with- 
drawal of the Qarrison from the island in accordance 
with the cheeseparing" economy of the present Govern- 
ment, the following remarks will not be out of place : — 
St Helena has a strategical value of which people 
in England are absolutely ignorant. It was chosen as 
Napoleon's prison on account of its impregnability. 
A garrison of a few hundred men could hold it against 
a host. Up to the opening of the Suez Canal it was 
of great importance as a victualling station for passing 
ships. Since then it has been neglected, but in case 
of war it would be of great value. Now, supposing 
Germany suddenly declared war upon us — we know, 
in spite of nice things said to the contrary, that 
Germany does not love us. and is preparing for the 

44 



Paees from an Adventurous Life 

day, which will probably come, when she will try con- 
clusions with us — swift cruisers carrying a few hundred 
soldiers could reach the island in a few days, and its 
value to Germany as a coaling and ammunition station 
would be immense, while a handful of men once in 
possession of the place could defy us. It is true there 
is no harbour and there are no docks, but there is a 
perfectly safe anchorage opposite Jamestown, and 
ships can approach within a biscuit throw of that part 
of the shore. It will therefore be seen that Germany 
or any other nation once in possession of the island — 
and what could prevent them obtaining possession of 
it under the circumstances I indicate ? — might cause us 
a lot of annoyance, and it might even be used as a 
base of attack on the Atlantic traders. Anyway, from 
what I have gathered lately, it is the opinion of many 
naval and military experts that the Government have 
made a fatal mistake in withdrawing the garrison from 
the island and leaving it, as they have done, absolutely 
unprotected. The island is about 28 miles in circum- 
ference ; the cliffs which protect it from the sea rise 
600 to 1 200 feet. The only landing-place for troops 
is the chasm in which Jamestown is situated, and a 
few guns would serve to defend it. It is only 
about 1400 miles from the Cape. Its climate is 
one of the most perfect in the world, and as a sani- 
torium it might, with enterprise and capital, be turned 
to protitable account. There is a mountain called 
Diana's Peak which rises to the height of 2693 
feet. In the interior of the island the soil is so 
fertile that it will grow almost anything. 

45 



CHAPTER II 

Sudden death of my father in Calcutta — I study with a tutor — Theatrical ex- 
periences — Some celebrated actors and actresses — Practical jokes — 
Charles Dillon and Barney Egan— Amusing story of " Professor " 
Anderson — I witness the execution of a woman at Newgate — I 
sail for Sydney — Rough it on the Pacific-coast— Long tramp through 
the bush — I meet Morgan the Bushranger — A weird experience on 
the diggings — How I was induced to go in search of a missing friend 
— I return to Sydney — I meet with an old acquaintance, and sail in 
a coal-laden ship for China — Terrible voyage and close shaves 
— Adventure with a junk — I narrowly escape being blown up. 

I HAD only been in England a short time when, to the 
inexpressible grief of all his family, news was received 
of my father's painfully sudden death. He had been 
greatly tried during the Mutiny years byfinancial losses, 
and the death of dear friends, many of whom were 
cruelly butchered, and though he had a wonderful 
constitution, it yielded to the strain. To me the blow 
was a heavy one. I little dreamed when I parted 
from him in India I should see him no more on earth. 
My return to India was now out of the question, and 
in deference to the pleadings of my dear mother, I 
remained in Manchester for a time, and read with a 
tutor, though I am afraid I was a very idle and stupid 
pupil. The call of the wild was a syren song to me, 
and the love of adventure had become like a fever. I 
chafed against restriction and routine. Nevertheless, 
I was bookishly inclined, with a perfect passion for 

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reading, and fell under the spell and influence of De 
Quincey. My mother's house was little more than a 
stone's throw from his birthplace at Greenheys. As a 
small boy, I used to hear a good deal of talk about him, 
and though he died in Edinburgh the very year that 
I returned from India, there was still a De Quincey 
atmosphere in Greenheys, at that period a beautiful 
neighbourhood, with wide stretches of open country 
all round, patches of woodland near, and numerous 
delightful, green shady lanes. To-day it is a hideous, 
squalid region of bricks and mortar. I read every- 
thing I could get hold of that De Quincey had pub- 
lished, and his works exercised a peculiar influence 
over me. One of our acquaintances at this time was 
Dr Spencer T. Hall, the " Sherwood Forester," a 
well-known author, and constant contributor to the 
Manchester Examiner and Thnes. It was in the 
columns of that journal that his " Recollections of 
Remarkable Persons " first appeared. Dr Hall lived 
at Boness on Windermere, where I used to visit him. 
He had a magnificent library, which I was privileged 
to use ; and it was my good fortune to meet many 
distinguished people at his house, including Harriet 
Martineau and her brother the Rev. James, a truly 
remarkable man, though he did not fascinate me as 
did his sister, who was the most unprepossessing, but 
the most intellectual, woman I have ever known. She 
talked brilliantly ; her knowledge and learning were 
profound. Hall himself was a ripe scholar, and was 
well acquainted with many of the literary celebrities 
of the day, including Mary Russell Mitford, Elihu 

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Burrit, James Silk Buckingham, the Howitts, Charles 
Reece Pemberton, Dr Samuel Brown, Combe, Gregory, 
Liebig, Bernard Barton (the Quaker), John Clare, the 
Northamptonshire poet, and many other worthies, 
about whom I used to hear a great deal from my 
friend, who was a good raconteur, and was blessed 
with an excellent memory. Hall himself was a poet 
of no mean order, and was a voluminous writer. He 
was also possessed of an extraordinary mesmeric power, 
which he occasionally put to the test, and as he was a 
medical man, this brought him under the lash of cheap 
scribes. His friend, Bernard Barton, defended him 
vigorously on one occasion in some powerful verses. 
This roused the ire of a well-known writer of the day 
who called himself " Suffolk Punch " ; he attacked 
Barton furiously, and with execrable taste sneered at 
him for being in receipt of a literary pension. This 
drew from Barton a poetical reply, the original MS. 
of which was presented to me by Hall, and as the 
rejoinder to the attack is very little known, or at least 
forgotten, I venture to quote the verses here : 

*' Poor silly Suffolk Punch ! to me 
'Tis plain thou hast not got the key 
To what I wrote ; nor canst thou see 
The reason why I wrote it ; 
So Hall and I may rest content 
That thy most mournful merriment 
Should in the Chronicle fuid vent, 
And with good humour note it. 

" As for my pension — rail away ; 
He laughs who wins, old proverbs say ; 
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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

My self-respect remains my stay, 
Thy satire never troubling it. 
'Twas won by no servility ; 
The Queen conferred it generously ; 
And verse like thine might justify 
Her Majesty in doubling it." 

Hall was a man of marked personality, with a 
magnificent head ; was a genial Bohemian, and had 
a hatred of shams and conventionalism. Such a man 
could not fail to impress a youth constituted as I was, 
and I know that my mind at that time took much of 
its bent from him, while the advice and encourage- 
ment he gave me have been of great service to me 
throughout my career. In those far-off days I was 
very fond of the theatre and theatrical people, and an 
opportunity was afforded me of gratifying my tastes 
in that respect. A rich relative of mine had some 
financial connection with the Theatre Royal, which 
was under the management of Mr John Knowles. 
Whether my relative had lent Mr Knowles money, or 
whether he had an interest in the property or not, I 
don't know. But I do know that I had the entr6e to 
the theatre, a privilege I was very proud of, and in 
consequence of which I became acquainted with many 
of the well-known actors and actresses of the day. 
One of the productions at the Theatre Royal about 
this period was a romantic drama entitled "The Son 
of Night." The cast included the whole of the Payne 
family. Miss Amy Sedgwick, Walter Montgomery, 
Julia Seaman, Fred Worboys, Mr and Mrs Horsman, 
Mr Harker, and others. Walter Montgomery was a 
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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

handsome, reckless, dare-devil young man, much given 
to doing eccentric things. On one occasion, I believe, 
he made a wager that he would ride a horse into the 
dininof-room of a hotel where the members of the 
corporation happened to be celebrating some event 
by a civic feast. Needless to say, Montgomery won 
his wager and created a sensation, for it took many 
men and much rope to induce the horse to leave the 
room. About this time I also made the acquaintance 
of Charles Dillon, who came to the Royal on a starr- 
ing engagement. At the back of the old Queen's 
Theatre in Spring Gardens was an ancient tavern 
called the " Harp." It was in the occupation of a 
Mr Robert Harwood, who, if I remember rightly, was 
connected with a circus, and owned a magnificent mare 
named Black Bess, with which he used to perform in 
a sketch having Dick Turpin for the hero. The 
" Harp" was the gathering-place for the " Pros," and 
there I frequently met the genial " Barney " Egan, 
who was lessee of the Queen's. He was the prince 
of good fellows, and fond of a practical joke ; while 
Dillon was equally fond of a good dinner. One day 
Dillon received an invitation from Barney which ran 
as follows: — "Come and sup to-night with a select 
few at the Harp. A regular theatrical feed. Bring 
a pal or two if you like. Hour 11.30." 

Of course, Dillon turned up at the time named, 
accompanied by three friends. The table was spread 
with a goodly array of glass and plate, and when the 
order was given for the supper to be served, in marched 
several waiters, each bearing a large covered dish. 

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On the covers being removed there were disclosed a 
stuffed cat, skewered up like a hare, property bread, 
property fish, wooden fowls, a canvas joint of beef, 
etc., while bottles of wine when opened were found 
to contain toast and water. Dillon appreciated the 
" sell," and supped on Welsh rare-bits and old ale, for 
which the tavern was famous. He determined, how- 
ever, to have hisrevenge, and the day before his engage- 
ment expired he forwarded a huge hamper to " Barney " 
Egan, Esq., Queen's Theatre. The carrier who de- 
livered it demanded, and was paid, something like ten 
shillings for cartage. The hamper weighed nearly 
two cwts., and, when it was opened on the stage, poor 
Barney had to admit that Dillon had scored. Among 
other things were a dead dog carefully sewn up in 
canvas, a pair of very old stage boots, several cham- 
pagne bottles filled with water, while at the bottom 
of the hamper reposed a number of paving-stones. 

Another interesting personage with whom I became 
acquainted at this period was " Professor " Anderson, 
the "Wizard of the North." He was accompanied 
by two of his daughters, exceedingly pretty girls, who 
many years afterwards died, as I have heard, in a 
London workhouse. Anderson opened at the Free 
Trade Hall, and on the second night of his per- 
formance I was present, when an amusing incident 
happened. One of the bewildering illusions consisted 
in the Professor asking for the loan of a watch, and one 
having been handed to him, he proceeded to (apparently) 
pulverise it in the presence of the audience. To 
heighten the effect of this trick, one of the assistants 

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used to disguise himself as a countryman, and taking 
his place among the audience, tendered a massive, 
old-fashioned watch, which was, of course, accepted. 
When Anderson proceeded to destroy it the country- 
man sprang up in a very excited state, and created a 
scene by wildly gesticulating, calling for the police, 
and vowing that he would have the law on the Pro- 
fessor. On the night in question, the assistant who 
had been in the habit of personating the aggrieved 
countryman was absent through illness or some other 
cause. The result was the services were secured of 
a rough and decidedly bucolic-looking individual, who 
was engaged with others in carrying out some repairs 
in the hall. He was duly instructed as to what was 
expected of him. On the request for a watch he was 
to hand up his. When it was to all seeming broken 
to pieces on the stage he was to spring to his feet, 
rave and storm, and making his way towards the 
stage, threaten the Professor. The man appears to 
have been a very ignorant and stu[)id sort of fellow, 
and he acted his part with a realism that caused an 
unmistakable sensation. Seeing his watch actually 
smashed, as he thought, he roared out : 

"Here, guv'nor, what's tha doing with that theere 
watch ? " 

" Dear me," answered the conjurer with well- 
feigned concern, " I thought you had given me per- 
mission to smash it." 

" Tha'rt a liar," cried the man fiercely, "and, by 
gum, I'll smash theey 

With a leap and a bound he was on the stage, and 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

gripping Anderson by the collar, he swung him about, 
and growled out a string of expletives that are un- 
printable. At first the audience thought it was all 
part of the show, and a roar of laughter rolled round 
the house ; but the heavily built, gouty conjurer was 
being mauled in a way he had not bargained for, and 
it took four assistants, who rushed on from the wings, 
to drag the assailant away. Then the vast audience 
began to show signs of alarm. Anderson presented 
rather a sorry spectacle, his dress clothes being almost 
dragged off his back. He was forced to retire to calm 
his excited nerves and rearrange his dress. Sub- 
sequently he finished the trick, and restored the watch 
intact to its owner, who examining it dubiously, said : 

" I'm sorry I punched thee, guv'nor, but, by gum, I 
thout as tha'd smashed the thing, I did for sure." 

Later on in the evening I was in company with 
Anderson, who was very much upset, and declared 
that he had never before been the victim of such a 
mistake. The incident, however, proved a good 
advertisement, and the Professor was rewarded for 
the mauling he had endured by a crowded house every 
night during his stay. There was one event that 
occurred in Manchester at this period of my career 
which was destined to make not only a lasting im- 
pression on me, but to influence my future career. 
This was the appearance of Charles Dickens at the 
Free Trade Hall in the character of a public reader. 
I think it must have been early in 1861 that I was a 
unit in a vast audience assembled to hear the great 
novelist read "The Chimes." To me it was a revela- 

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tion. I had previously read many of his works, and 
for a long time had had an unconquerable yearning 
to see and know the author whom all England was 
talking about. The man's beautiful, sympathetic voice, 
the wonderfully expressive eyes, his marvellous elo- 
quence, his magnetic presence seemed to throw me 
under a spell, and I regarded him as something more 
than a human being, or at anyrate as a man who was 
quite different from other men I had so far known. 
The power that Dickens had over the hearts of the 
people at this time, was little short of marvellous. On 
the occasion I allude to the great hall was literally 
packed from floor to ceiling. Yet that audience was 
placed under the spell wielded by the man whose voice 
was like a silver bell, and who acted what he read. 
The pathos moved the people to tears, the humour 
stirred them to roars of laughter. There were no 
accessories of music or scenery, simply one man at a 
reading-desk ; but what a man ! What a gift to be 
able to charm and sway a multitude ! Sometimes you 
could have heard a pin drop, at others the roof seemed 
rent with the roars of the people as they gave vent 
to their strained feelings. And when it came to the 
peroration there was a silence which was almost pain- 
ful, even a woman's sob here and there only served 
to intensify it. 

" Had Trotty dreamed ? Or are his joys and 
sorrows, and the actors in them, but a dream ; himself 
a dream ; the teller of this tale a dreamer, waking 
but now? If it be so, O listener, dear to him in all 
his visions, try to bear in mind the stern realities from 

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which these shadows came, and in your sphere — none 
is too wide and none too narrow for such an end — 
endeavour to correct, improve, and soften them. So 
may the New Year be a happy one to you, happy to 
many more whose happiness depends on you ! So 
may each year be happier than the last, and not the 
meanest of your brethren or sisterhood debarred their 
rightful share in what our Great Creator formed them 
to enjoy." Gently, slowly the book was closed, and 
the solitary figure seemed to glide from the stage, yet 
the vast audience remained silent — for hours ; it was 
only seconds, but the seconds seemed hours. Then 
the people let themselves go; they had the weary man 
back, and they thundered their approval. He stood 
there slowly bowing, the tears of heartfelt emotion 
running down his pale cheeks. I passed out into 
the frosty night. I was a dreamer ; I was dreaming 
dreams. Charles Dickens had carved his name on 
my heart. For many days afterwards he seemed to 
haunt me, and to stir within me feelings and desires 
of which up to then I had only had a vague con- 
sciousness. 

My career in India, which appeared so promising, 
having been cut short by the sudden death of my 
father, it had become necessary that I should deter- 
mine upon some plans as to my future. My heart 
had been decidedly towards literature. At school I 
had founded and edited a magazine, and I had con- 
tributed a few fugitive articles to some of the journals 
of the day. I had also won two prizes in a literary 
competition. Although very young, I was painfully 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

alive to the difficulties of my position. The family 
fortunes had undergone a serious change, and it 
pained me to think that I was so heavily taxing my 
beloved mother's slender income. She doted upon 
me, and would have sacrificed herself for my sake, 
but I was not willing to accept the sacrifice. For 
some time I had been debating with myself whether 
I should go abroad or not. Certainly it was not in 
me to settle down to a city life, even if I had been 
qualified for it, but the point I had to decide was : 
''Where should I go to, and what should I do?" 
After hearinp^ Charles Dickens I was no loncjer in 
any doubt. I must take my fate in my hands. I 
must seek my fortune. It was as if he had opened 
my eyes to the course I was to pursue. I had an 
uncle by marriage in Australia — a journalist and 
printer. I had never seen him, and knew very little 
about him beyond the fact that he had been in 
Australia for many years, and was much beholden to 
a brother and sister of my mother, who had helped 
him in his early days. I resolved therefore to go to 
this uncle, for I understood he was doing well. But 
the resolve confronted me with a serious problem. 
Australia was a long way off How was I to get 
there ? I was not easily daunted, however, and 
generally when I made up my mind to do a thing 
I managed to do it somehow or other. From my 
father I inherited a spirit of determination. I came 
to London to confer with a relative, and it fell to my 
lot in the course of my stay to witness the execution 
of Catherine Wilson outside of Newgate. She had 

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been convicted for poisoning a Mrs Soames, but it 
was believed she had put many other people to death 
by administering colchicum. It chanced that on the 
morning of the execution I had an early appointment 
with my relative in Holbourn, and as great crowds 
were streaming towards the prison, I was seized with 
a desire to be present at the terrible scene. I 
managed to get quite near the scaffold. Huge 
barriers had been erected to prevent rushes by the 
crowd, which was a densely packed mass of men and 
boys principally. As eight o'clock tolled the unhappy 
culprit was brought out. She was a fine, even a 
handsome woman, and had dressed herself with great 
care. She resented all offers of assistance, and 
mounted the scaffold unaided ; she carried a hand- 
kerchief in her hand, and retained it until the drop 
fell. It was a very windy morning, and as the hand 
of the dying woman relaxed, the wind blew the 
handkerchief among the crowd, and there was a 
desperate struggle for it. Several persons were 
injured, I believe, and the handkerchief was torn to 
shreds. If I am not mistaken, she was the last woman 
hanged in public in London. 

The result of my visit to London was that I heard 
of a Government agent who was going to Sydney in 
a sailing ship in charge of a batch of emigrants, and 
required the services of a young man as private 
secretary. I immediately applied for the post, and 
was fortunate enough to secure the appointment, 
partly through the influence of my relative, and I 
returned to Manchester highly elated. My mother 

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was greatly distressed at the thought of my leaving 
her, but as I argued that it was to my future welfare, 
she resigned herself to the parting. 

I left Liverpool in, I think, the month of November. 
The weather was as bad as it could be. We crept 
down the Channel through thick, dense fog, and had 
an exceedingly bad passage until we were well to the 
eastward of the Cape. Then we got a good spell for 
two or three weeks, when we ran into heavy gales, and 
carried them with us to the Australian coast. 

I remained in Sydney for upwards of a month, and, 
curiously enough, met Charles Dillon. He had been 
starring in the Colonies. Our meetino' was a mutual 
and agreeable surprise, and we renewed acquaintance. 
A few days later I was in a place of entertainment, 
when I was accosted by the sailmaker of the ship in 
which I had come from England. I had been rather 
friendly with him on board, as he was a well-informed 
and intelligent man, and I learnt a good deal from 
him. He told me he had left his ship owing to a 
quarrel with the captain, and that he intended to try 
and reach some of the gold diggings. He asked me 
if I would accompany him, and I readily assented. In 
the course of the next few days, after some slight 
preparations, we took train to Campbeltown, thence 
tramped over the Loudon Mountain, and made our 
way through Bulli and Kiama to Shoalhaven, where, 
curiously enough, we fell in with a Manchester man, 
who some years before had come from England with 
his wife as an emigrant. He was a contractor, and 
had got a Government contract to build a small break- 

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water at the mouth of the river. The stone was being 
quarried at a place a considerable distance up the river. 
It was then taken down in barges, and dumped at the 
mouth. He told us that a great deal of stone had 
been put in the wrong spot, and would have to be 
shifted, and offered us a job, which we cheerfully- 
accepted, ignorant of the nature of the work. He 
provided us with a tent, a truckle bed, and some other 
necessaries, and we went down in a barge to about as 
wild and savage a spot as could well be imagined. 
Before we could pitch our tent we had to burn down 
a quantity of bush, and in doing so disturbed an 
enormous number of snakes and wild bees. The 
place was a primitive wilderness, exposed to the full 
fury of the Pacific. We were provided with a small 
boat and a flat-bottomed punt. At low water we had 
to wade out to a heap of stones, lift them with our 
hands, load the punt, then tow it to deeper water, and 
dump the stones down again. It was terribly hard 
work. The stones were encrusted with tiny oysters, 
and our hands were lacerated. Nevertheless, we 
plodded away, and if the solitude was irksome, the 
sense of freedom was truly delightful as far as I was 
concerned. Our employer had undertaken to send 
down a stock of provisions every week by a barge 
leaving on Friday night, and reaching the mouth of 
the river, where we were stationed, on the Saturday 
morning. For a few weeks the provisions arrived 
regularly, then the supply suddenly stopped. One 
Saturday there was no barge, and we were reduced 
to our last morsel of salt pork. When the evening 

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came we determined to go and interview the " Boss," 
and inquire the meaning of the stoppage. To this 
end we cut a sapHng for a mast, stepped it in the 
boat, and rigging up a blanket for a sail, put off as 
the dusk was closing down. The tide was ebbing, but 
a fair wind was setting up the river. We had not 
proceeded very far before our sail went wrong, and 
while we were engaged in rigging it up afresh we 
failed to observe that the boat was drifting back, until 
suddenly, to our consternation, we found we were out 
of the river and in the open sea. All attempts to 
regain the river were futile, our sail and mast being 
too fragile. It was now pitch dark, and the sea was 
thundering on the shore, the rollers being of enormous 
length. There was nothing for it but to keep our tiny 
craft parallel with the shore during the hours of dark- 
ness, and then attempt a landing. We passed an 
anxious night, one of us bailing incessantly, the other 
steering. When daylight appeared we found ourselves 
abreast of a great expanse of beach which was thrashed 
and pulverised by the mighty Pacific breakers. Our 
chances were rather slender, but we took the risk. 
We set the frail craft straight for shore, trimmed our 
blanket sail to catch all the wind, mounted on the 
crest of a huge roller, and then amidst a thunderous 
roar and a hell of hissing surf we were flung on to the 
desolate beach. I narrowly escaped being sucked 
back by the undertow, but my friend saved me. Our 
boat, however, and all our belongings were drawn 
back into the ocean, and we saw them no more. 
Hungry as we were, and soaked to the skin, our 

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position was not an enviable one. We had no tobacco, 
no matches, no food. The barren shore stretched for 
miles and miles ; inland was a vast expanse of scrub. 
However, we had to face it, and guessing our course 
for Shoalhaven, we set off. The going was about as 
bad as anything I remember : prickly, tangled scrub, 
alternated with swamp. There was nothing to satisfy 
our hunger, but our burning, almost maddening thirst 
we slaked with the brackish swamp water. Fortun- 
ately, we steered our course rightly, and at night saw 
the welcome lights of the village. We learnt that the 
" Boss " had been suddenly called to Sydney, and his 
men had been on the spree ; hence the reason of our 
being forgotten. We waited for a few days until the 
fellow returned, drew the money due to us, and set 
our faces towards Sydney, as my chum had had enough 
of roughing it in the bush. A day or two after our 
arrival I got a passage in a coasting steamer going 
to Melbourne, and my friend, as I learnt afterwards, 
shipped for India. So we parted, never to meet again. 
My uncle did not receive me with the cordiality I had 
anticipated ; nevertheless, he offered me a position which 
I accepted, and I remained with him several months. 
Our temperaments, however, were antagonistic. It 
is true he taught me a good deal, but he imposed so 
many restraints upon me that I resented them. I 
regarded him as a martinet, he considered me intract- 
able, as indeed I was, for I had come to love freedom. 
The syren voice of the wild was still in my ears, so 
one day, after a stormy scene with my good relative, 
we parted. My worldly wealth consisted of four 

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pounds. I spent somclhing like fifty shillings of this 
amount in a bush outfit, and "humping my swag," set 
forth into the wilderness again, with no fixed pro- 
gramme. I simply wanted to move on. I did a long, 
long tramp, picking up my living as best I could. 
How I lived I don't know. On one occasion I 
suffered agony, and nearly perished from want of 
water. On another hunger necessitated my resorting 
to a peculiar maggot for food— a little whitish, slimy 
creature found under the bark of certain trees. I had 
heard much of its virtues, and found it nourishing and 
tasty. I wandered through Gipj)'s Land, crossed 
the Southern Alps, and fell in with a prospector, who 
cheerfully shared his little remaining stock of food 
with me. We tramped on, and struck Gandagai 
together. There was a wooden shanty which, ac- 
cording to the legend on a canvas sign, was "The 
Diggers' Arms." Wearily and athirst we made our 
way to it. There was a bar, a lead-covered counter ; 
there were bottles on shelves, there were glasses and 
jugs, but there was no living soul, no sign of life. 
We refreshed ourselves ; we felt the world was good. 
We had come from the wilderness, and here was 
civilisation. Presently we heard shouts afar off. We 
went to the door. In a clearing in a hollow were 
many people swaying and struggling. We concluded 
there were happenings, and we sauntered forth to chip 
in. A tall man in pants, high boots, blue flannel shirt, 
and slouched hat, strode up to us. " What cheer, 
mates ? You've been to my hotel ^ Hope you helped 
yourselves ? Don't bother me now. We've got a 

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cock fight on. I've backed my bird against Mike 
M 'Fee's for four ounces, and if I win I'll give you a 
good time." 

All the population were assembled at that cock fight, 
even leaving the public-house to take care of itself. 
Our host's bird did win, and we had the good time. 
How many ounces changed hands that day I know 
not ; but there was as much excitement over that cock 
fight as over an English Derby. Mike M'Pee took 
his defeat like a man, paid his losses to the uttermost 
pennyworth, and "shouted " for the whole village. 

To-day, as I am given to understand, Gandagai is 
a flourishing city, and too respectable, I opine, to lend 
itself to cock fighting. The ensuing two years of my 
life were passed in wild wanderings, with accompanying 
amount of hardship. My experiences embraced gold 
digging, cattle driving, prospecting, sheep farming, 
timber cutting, etc., but I am afraid it would prove 
wearisome were I to tell the story of my doings in de- 
tail at this period. One incident, however, may be of 
interest. I was prospecting alone in the bush when 
one evening, as I was preparing my evening meal, a 
horseman rode up, and greeted me. He was a power- 
ful man with a weather-beaten, determined face. He 
had small, keen eyes, and I was particularly struck 
with their restlessness. He seemed to be constantly 
on the alert, and listening, and though I hadn't the 
remotest idea who he was, I felt sure he was a hunted 
man. His mount was a magnificent specimen of a 
bush horse, and had evidently been hard ridden. His 
master hitched him to a tree within a few yards of 

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my fire, then rubbed him down and fed him ; that 
done, shared the contents of a bag of provisions with 
me, and when we had boiled a billy of tea and supped 
he peremptorily ordered me to put the fire out. We 
passed the night together stretched on the ground, he 
within reach of his horse, which he had saddled before 
lying down. Soon after daybreak he took his de- 
parture. Before doing so he gave me a supply of 
tobacco, matches, tea, and a small piece of bacon. 
As he shook my hand and mounted his horse, he said : 
"Well, matey, you can say you've shaken the hand 
of Morgan the Bushranger." And off he went, to be 
seen by me no more. 

Morgan had long been the terror of New South 
Wales. I shall never forget his peculiar, shifty eyes 
and his brutish, determined face. He was a fair- 
spoken man, however, but gave me the impression 
that he would have stuck at nothing to save his skin. 
He was subsequently — long after I met him — tracked 
down, and refusing to surrender, was shot. There is 
one other remarkable incident associated with this part 
of my career which I think is interesting enough to 
be told here. It borders on the supernatural, in which 
I have little or no belief, and I leave the explanation 
to those who are capable of explaining it. At the time 
I speak of I had a gold claim on a river in the Braid- 
wood district. My near neighbour was a young fellow 
whom I knew as James Litherland. We became 
intimates, for apart from the fact that we had much 
in common, he was a native of Manchester, and 
though I was not, it had been for many years my 

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home, and that, of course, was a bond, as it were, 
between us. He was an erratic sort of man, and 
would wander away for two or three days at a time, 
and on his return I could obtain from him no informa- 
tion as to his movements although we were so intimate. 

One day he asked me to take charge of his tools, as 
he was going to have a tramp for two or three weeks. 
I questioned him about his intentions, but he refused 
to be drawn. Before leaving he handed me a paper 
packet of scale gold weighing about eight ounces, and 
asked me to take charge of it. 

" But suppose you never come back," said I. 

" Then you can keep it," was the answer ; but as he 
wrung my hand he added, " You'll see me again, 
chum, as sure as the sun shines." 

Six or seven weeks passed, and I had almost given 
up hopes of meeting my friend any more, when one 
night I woke up in a great fright. I should explain 
that my palatial residence consisted of a hollow in a 
rock, with an old blanket hung up for a door, and my 
bed a heap of dead fern leaves covered with sacks. 
The river flowed a few feet away through a wild 
mountain gorge. My fright was caused by a belief 
that a great weight had fallen upon me from the roof, 
I sprang to my feet, and rushed outside, when to my 
amazement I saw two small lights dancing- about 
over the rushing waters. They suggested two little 
lanterns swinging in the wind. Gradually their 
motion ceased until they became stationary, like 
two dots of fire, and from them a voice came to me, 
saying: "Go to Shoalhaven ; go to Shoalhaven ; go 
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to Shoalhaven." This command was repeated three 
times distinctly. Then the Hghts faded away, and 
dazed and half stupefied, I crept back to my hole, and 
fell asleep. 

The following morning this dream, if dream it was, 
came back to me with startling vividness, and I thought 
that I had suffered from a nightmare, having dined 
too sumptuously the previous night on " damper " and 
tea. My knowledge of Shoalhaven was very limited. 
I had passed a day or two in the village, that was all, 
and from where I was then located to Shoalhaven 
was about a three days' journey through dense bush. 
Singularly enough, that afternoon a man from the 
stores — "station," as it was called there — went about 
among the diggers announcing that he was leaving 
the following morning in a dray to fetch up a load of 
stores from Shoalhaven, and if "the boys" wanted 
any commissions executed they were to give their 
orders. At the announcement that he was going to 
Shoalhaven the coincidence struck me as being 
extraordinary, and again I heard the weird voice 
ringing over the dark waters and bidding me go to 
Shoalhaven. Why should I go to a place where, ap- 
parently, I had no earthly interest? It seemed to me 
absolutely ridiculous ; but the desire to go grew upon 
me until it became irresistible, and I appealed to the 
drayman to take me with him. He readily assented, 
and at daybreak on the following morning we set out 
on our lonely journey. There was no road through 
the bush — only a cattle track. It was locally known 
as the " ninety-mile track." After two or three little 

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adventures we reached our destination. Then I 
began to think that I was a fool for my pains ; for 
why should I have come to Shoalhaven ? I had no 
interests there, and knew nobody, except the man for 
whom I had worked on the breakwater. As the dray 
was not going back for two or three days, I put up at 
the only inn in the place at that time. It was a two- 
storeyed wooden shanty, and was kept by a widow, 
whose name I cannot remember, though I think it 
was Jennings. In the course of my conversation 
with her she told me she had "a young fellow" who 
was ill upstairs. He had come from Sydney, she 
said, and had been taken ill in her house. He was 
"off his head," she informed me, and had no money 
and no letters or papers on him that would lead to his 
identity, but in his ravings he was always calling out 
for "Chum Muddock." I almost fell to the ground 
at this announcement, but in a few seconds recovered 
myself, and bounding up the creaking stairs, rushed 
into a room on top of the landing, and there on a 
truckle bed lay my friend Jim Litherland. He was 
in the grip of fever. The good woman of the inn had 
secured the services of a local doctor, who had ex- 
pressed his opinion that the patient would not live 
many hours. I had a different opinion, though I was 
not a doctor. I hadn't been sent to him by some 
mysterious power simply to see him die. On the 
third or fourth day he had a lucid interval, during 
which he recognised me and wept for joy. From 
that moment he began to mend : the crisis was over. 
I nursed him night and day for a fortnight, during 

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which he told me that he had gone up to Sydney to 
"have a burst." When all his money was done he 
was told by the landlord of the house, where he had 
deposited his bank draft, to clear out, a trifle of money 
being handed to him to get somewhere. Diggers 
who had " bursted their pile" and become penniless 
were not wanted in Sydney. He paid his passage by 
a coasting steamer for Shoalhaven, which was the 
point of departure for the Braidwood. At Shoalhaven 
he was seized with illness, and in all probability would 
have died, and been buried as an unknown, if I had 
not been sent to him by that mysterious voice. 
Whether I actually saw those lights dancing over the 
black waters of the rushing river ; whether I actually 
heard the mysterious voice out of the darkness 
bidding me go to Shoalhaven ; or whether it was all 
a dream, I have never been able to determine, 
though I strongly incline to the belief that I did 
spring up in the manner stated, that I did see the 
lights and hear the voice, when all my senses were 
fully awake. Whichever way it was, the fact remains 
that I was drawn to my friend by some strange 
psychological force, and I humbly believe I saved his 
life. 

I talked to him about it, and he seemed much 
concerned. He was a peculiarly reticent man. He 
had received a good education, and evidently been 
well brought up ; but I conceived the idea that there 
was some strange secret in connection with his life 
which at times he yearned to tell me, but could never 
bring himself to do so. 

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As soon as he was able to journey from Shoalhaven 
we humped our swags, and tramped back to our 
claims together, during which I gathered from him 
that he had gone to Sydney to see a young lady with 
whom he believed himself to be in love. She had 
disappeared, however, and he could get no trace of 
her. That maddened him, and he abandoned him- 
self to recklessness. He had two or three attacks of 
illness while in Sydney ; but it was not until he 
reached Shoalhaven, on his return journey, that he 
felt seriously ill, and he remembered one night having 
a horrible fear he was going to die ; then an 
intense and passionate yearning to see me again took 
possession of him. After that his mind became a 
blank until suddenly he recognised me as I sat by 
his bedside, and knew then that he would get better. 

For some months afterwards we lived the glorious 
life of freedom together. Becoming dissatisfied with 
our claims, we abandoned them, and went forth in 
the wilderness once more, wandering north-west to 
Yass, thence north to Bathurst, and other places. 
We tramped and starved and were happy, for our 
amity was perfect. It was the friendship, the 
camaraderie, the share-all and live-and-die together 
existence which men lead in the wilderness. But the 
time came at last when we had to part. We could 
not tramp together all our lives. I wandered forth 
to China, and he — Heaven only knows! 

Forty years is a long period in human affairs. I 
have often wondered if my old chum is still on the 
face of the earth. If he is, and should he perchance 

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read these lines, and give me a sign, I will go 
to him again if possible as I went to him at Shoal- 
haven. What a meeting we will have, and in our 
old age we will live again the glorious days of freedom 
of our wild and adventurous youth, when we wandered 
together through the Australian wilderness and the 
burden of life sat lightly upon us. 

I finally turned my back on the Braidwood region. 
I had had several attacks of fever and ague, and 
although I had fouo-ht aorainst it, I was bowled over. 
I came down to a place called Narrigo, and put up 
at the "station," kept by a Scotsman named Allcorn, 
who, besides running the store, was the owner of fat 
pastures and many sheep runs. Here I was laid up 
for a time. There was a long, shingle-covered hut, in 
which were numerous beds, A bed simply consisted 
of four stumps driven into the ground. Over these 
was stretched some canvas, that again being covered 
with straw. The pillows consisted of coarse canvas 
bags stuffed with fern leaves. Down the centre of the 
hut ran a table consisting of planks. Into this place 
the dioforers from round about crowded at the week- 
ends, and there was pandemonium until Monday. 
They gambled, drank, fought, and did everything but 
say their prayers. In this hole I lay sick for many 
days. My worldly wealth consisted of some scale gold 
worth about ^i 50. It was done up in scraps of paper, 
and I kept it in a bundle together with my magnificent 
wardrobe, consisting of a pair of old boots, ditto old 
pants, an old flannel shirt, a comb and brush, and that 
was all. I stowed my precious bundle in my bed, 

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whence it was sneaked one night when I was delirious 
with fever. Who the thief was I never knew, nor did 
I get my property back. When I was a Httle better 
I had to work out my indebtedness. Allcorn was a 
nigger driver. He sent me to clear a huge field from 
a forest of thistles six feet high. I had to slash them 
down with a long bill-hook. It was terrible work. 
The sun scorched me to the colour of brick, and I 
had to divide my attention between the thistles and 
the snakes, for the field swarmed with them. I stood 
it for four days, then struck. As I was still in the 
fellow's debt, I spent the next few days in driving a 
team of horses that went round and round chained to 
a lone wooden bar which worked a flour mill. I 
toiled for fifteen hours a day, and subsisted on damper 
and milk. Such an experience would do some of the 
working men of England good ; they would know 
what work meant. At last I was free. A friend in 
need gave me a tiny nugget, which I sold at the store 
for 25s., and as a dray was starting for Shoalhaven, I 
climbed in with the driver, and got a lift, for I was 
still weak and ill. As was customary then, the dray 
was drawn by two horses, tandem. The driver was a 
wild, reckless, fearless fellow. Towards the evening 
of the second day we were caught in a terrific thunder- 
storm. The lightning was appalling, and trees were 
struck close to us. The rain came down like a deluge, 
and we were half drowned. My companion said he 
knew of a good camping spot in the open, and he 
would reach it or "bust." He lashed his horses into 
a gallop, although the darkness was so intense that 

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but for the lightning we couldn't have seen the way. 
The dray swayed like a ship in a storm. We were 
drenched, and soaked to the skin. The animals, what 
with the cruel whip, the blazes of lightning, and the 
roar of thunder, got out of hand, and tore madly along. 
It seemed impossible that we could escape being 
dashed to pieces against the trees. Suddenly we 
came to a stop, and a horrible squelching told too 
plainly what had happened. We were swamped. 
The leading horse plunged madly, and sank lower 
and lower. We cut the traces, and we heard his 
piteous neighing and final gurgle as he went under. 
We were powerless to do anything. We huddled in 
the dray for hours, and cursed our luck. Our matches 
were sodden, so that we couldn't even console our- 
selves with a smoke. The storm died away. Gradu- 
ally the day broke. Not a trace of the first horse was 
to be seen, and the other poor creature in the shafts 
had been almost bled to death with swamp leeches. 
In a little while some stock drivers hove in sight. 
We coo-ed. They answered, came to the rescue, and 
hauled us out. We continued our journey with the 
single horse, and reached Shoalhaven without further 
mishap. There for the first time for many months I 
slept on a bed, and had a right good, square meal. 
And I shouldn't like to say how much tobacco I 
smoked. From Shoalhaven I got a passage in a 
coasting steamer bound for Sydney, where I landed 
with exactly three halfpence in my pocket and nothing 
but what I stood upright in. It was a pouring wet 
night, and sitting on the doorstep of a warehouse, I 

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resolved myself into a committee of ways and means, 
and deliberated whether I should spend my small 
fortune of three halfpence in tobacco or food. But 
before I could come to a resolution a bobby on beat 
confronted me, and entered into conversation, for he 
saw I was from the wilds. He promised me temporary 
hospitality, gave me some tobacco, and named a spot 
where I was to meet him in about half-an-hour, when 
he would be off duty. Thanks to that noble member 
of the force, I had a magnificent supper of beef and 
bread, washed down with excellent beer. The follow- 
ing morning he took me to a cheap lodging-house 
kept by an Irishwoman, and my policeman friend 
made himself responsible for two weeks' board and 
lodging. I had roughed it a bit in my time, but that 
boarding-house was a little too strong even for my 
hardened nerves. The company was mixed, and far 
from choice, while Norfolk Howards were there in 
such countless thousands that I preferred to sleep on 
the grass under the trees in the Domain. Before the 
fortnight had quite expired I fell in with the skipper 
of a trading vessel. I had previously met him in 
Bombay, when he was a third or fourth mate. We 
greeted, and explained. He told me his ship was 
going to load coal at Newcastle for Shanghai, and he 
asked me if I would go to China with him. I ex- 
pressed my perfect willingness to accompany him on 
an exploring expedition to Hades if he were so dis- 
posed, if I could only make a move and go somewhere ; 
so he agreed to ship me as supercargo, and when " I 
signed on " the following day I got an advance of 

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money, and once more was in clover. I paid my land- 
lady, forgathered with my friendly bobby, gave him 
a lock of my hair, and that night took passage in a 
coaster for Newcastle, situated at the mouth of the 
1 1 unter River, about seventy-two miles north of Sydney. 
It blew a hard gale all night, and the coaster had a 
bad time of it, but ultimately I landed at the coaling 
port, and joined my ship. She was a barque-rigged 
vessel, much the worse for wear, and ill found in 
every respect. The mate, a Mr Bates, was in charge 
of her. As I subsequently learnt, he was known as 
" Belly-ache Bates" from a habit he had of constantly 
pressing his hands on his epigastrium, and contorting 
his features as if he were in pain. It was mere habit, 
however, and he proved to be an excellent fellow as 
well as an expert sailor. He and I became good 
friends. Our vessel rapidly filled up with coal ; I 
tallied the cargo, and when we had shipped the stores 
we put to sea. I soon discovered that the skipper 
was a dipsomaniac, a silent drinker, and apt to become 
very violent when in his cups. He funked Torres 
Straits, saying he was not going to risk his "hooker" 
in that "narrow gut," and swinging her round, made 
for the eastward, and things began to go wrong. 
One morning at sunrise we found ourselves in the 
bight of a huge reef known as " Indispensable," and 
only escaped disaster by the skin of our teeth. There 
had been but a light breeze all night, and the ship had 
only made five or six knots an hour. Had it been 
otherwise we must have been dashed to pieces on that 
reef, and another vessel would have been posted at 

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Lloyds' as " missing." Between New Britain and New 
Guinea we were attacked by natives in a war canoe, 
and had some difficulty in gettino- rid of them. Prob- 
ably they would have succeeded in their design of 
turning us into potted meat but for the fact that we 
had a little brass siscnal cannon on board, which we 
loaded to the muzzle with old nails, screws, and bits 
of iron. When that cannon was fired it seemed to 
those on board as if the end of the world had come, 
and it so dismayed our cannibal friends that they 
pulled away as fast as their rowers could take them. 

In the China Sea we were overtaken by a terrific 
typhoon. We had every stitch of canvas set, in- 
cluding studding sails alow and aloft. The sails 
were blown to ribbons ; the jib-boom and the fore 
and main topgallant masts were carried away. All 
nioht we wallowed in the trouoh of the sea while we 
cleared the wreck, the skipper lying in his bunk in a 
state of insensibility. A day or two later we ran into 
a small islet known as the Beehive, but, fortunately, 
got off without any material damage when the tide 
rose. After an exceedingly long passage we towed 
up the river, and anchored abreast of Shanghai, and 
when the cargo was discharged I severed my con- 
nection with the ship, and was not sorry to leave 
her. 

I spent five months in Shanghai and its neighbour- 
hood during an awful epidemic of cholera, which 
swept off many of my acquaintances, and cast a deep 
gloom of sadness over the white population. 

One day I had an amusing little adventure which I 

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am tempted to relate, for it came as a pleasant break 
in the dull routine of the life I was then leading-. It 
was customary for the Europeans who could do so to 
sleep on board one or other of the vessels lying in the 
river, so as to get out of the stuffy, sweltering, and 
plague - stricken town. I used to go on board a 
Liverpool ship named the Ariadne, which was waiting 
for a carjTO of cotton. She had discharped her crew, 
with the exception of the carpenter, a Scotsman of 
the name of Macpherson, a black cook, the boatswain, 
and a boy, and the third mate, who was ill. One 
evening about five o'clock I went on board as usual, 
and found everyone very excited, for a rice - laden 
junk had run foul of the vessel's bows, and was jammed 
against the chain cables. The Chinese crew, as is 
customary under such circumstances, had slipped 
overboard, and swam ashore, leaving the junk to look 
after herself, as she was quite capable of doing, 
they would have argued, since she had a large eye 
painted on each side of her prow. The Liverpool 
skipper, however, was determined to hold her if possi- 
ble, as security against the damage he had suffered, 
otherwise, as he knew too well, he might go hang, for 
the owners of the junk, whoever they were, would 
never pay a single cash. As I stepped over the 
gangway he hailed me with delight. 

" Here, old chap !" he exclaimed, "jump on board 
that jolly junk, and stick to the blessed thing." 
And addressing the carpenter, he ordered him to go 
with me. 

It was a thing that appealed to me, and clambering 

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over the bows with alacrity, I boarded the junk, fol- 
lowed by Chips. Then the skipper dropped me a 
revolver with a strap attached to the stock so as to 
fasten it to the wrist, remarking : " You may want a 
popper, you know." 

By the united efforts of those on board the ship, 
aided by myself and Chips, we got the junk clear. 
Then the fun began. We wanted to anchor her, but 
couldn't get the beastly anchor over the side, and as 
the tide was running up like a mill dam, the junk with 
her painted eyes saw a chance for a lark, so she 
butted into a steamer, and some persons in authority 
on deck, not knowing the circumstances, used language 
that so shocked the feminine susceptibilities of the 
junk that she went off shyly at an oblique angle, and 
tried to sink another junk lying at anchor. Failing in 
this rather unneighbourly attack on the poor junk, which 
had done her no harm, she waltzed merrily up the 
river, and Chips began to look glum. This running 
amok was not what he had bargained for, and it 
seemed to promise trouble. 

"The best thing we can dae," he said, "is tae get 
on some vessel, and let this bally thing gae her ain 
way. She's far too frisky for my liking." In a few 
minutes we cannoned off the white, a little steamer 
anchored in midchannel, and Chips, with an energy 
that belied his years, for he was an old, grey-bearded 
man, sprang on to the steamer's rail, and I was left in 
full charge. I determined to see the thing through, 
and waited for developments. I knew that the run- 
away craft must bring up somewhere, and she did in 

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a manner I had not calculated upon. She drifted into 
the floating town opposite the native quarters, and 
some of the enterprising inhabitants scenting loot, 
swarmed on board, and thincrs beoan to hum. It was 
too good a chance for those piratical river-dwellers to 
let slip. I assumed a very commanding air, and 
ordered them off; whereat they laughed, and as the 
opportunity of trying conclusions with a white youth 
didn't often occur, they were evidently not disposed 
to remain idle. I faced them with the "popper," but 
there was no pop in it. The caps were rusted on the 
nipples, and when one of the looters whacked me on 
the head with a bamboo pole, I felt I was at a dis- 
advantage. It was nearly dark, and as I saw no signs 
of anybody coming to my aid, and the odds against me 
were overwhelming, I very reluctantly backed slowly 
to the high, rising poop, and cursed the fate that had 
placed me in such a situation without an effective 
weapon. I could not even secure a bamboo pole. 
The almond-eyed rascals tumbled over each other 
in their eagerness to get at me ; but the deck was 
encumbered with sails and ropes, for everything had 
come down with a run, and this fact enabled me to 
give up my command — ^justifiably, I hope — and retire. 
On reaching the taffrail, I sat on it, spun round as on 
a pivot, and dropped into the river — or rather let me 
call it a sewer, for it was nothing else. It was an un- 
dignified exit from the junk, but what else could I have 
done ? As I went below the surface of the foul and 
polluted stream, I thought it was precious hard that 
after having escaped the cholera for so many months 

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I was now probably to die of typhoid fever. I knew 
I should not be drowned, for I wasn't born to be. 
When I came to the surface I struck out for the shore, 
with the useless revolver still strapped to my wrist. 
A few yards away was a native boat, on which two 
women, a young one and an old one, were cooking 
rice over a brazier of charcoal. Getting hold of the 
side of the boat, I hoisted myself in. The eyes of 
the women almost tumbled out of their heads with 
astonishment, but as I considered it was an inopportune 
moment for explanations, even if I could have spoken 
their language, I thrust the dripping revolver in their 
yellow faces, and signed to them to hoist their wooden 
anchor and row me down the river. Up to that 
moment I never thought it possible that Chinese 
coolie women could display so much energy ; and as 
we sped down the stream in the darkness I supped off 
some of their rice, and thought that after all there was 
always some compensation for one's little mishaps. 
As I did not deem it advisable to sit still in my wet 
clothes, I made the women put me ashore opposite the 
English bund. That side of the river in my time 
was principally paddy fields, and my intention was to 
run until I was opposite the ship, which I thought I 
should be able to pick out in the darkness, and hail 
her to send a boat. It was an excellent idea, but it 
didn't pan out well. In my eagerness I plunged into 
a narrow irrigating creek, and coming up, struck against 
something which proved to be a small flat-bottomed 
punt, on to which I scrambled, and felt then that it was 
absolutely certain it wasn't my fate to be drowned, and 

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so far I have escaped Hanoi ng. By that time I was too 
exhausted to arg^ue what the probabilities were of 
my being hanged, and utterly indifferent as to what 
might happen during the next few hours, I promptly 
tumbled off to sleep. The sun was up when I awoke. 
I was stiff, and not altogether comfortable. Moreover, 
I found that some of the swamp leeches had been 
sampling me. It was an unfair advantage on their 
part, but there is a good deal of give and take in this 
world. As my head was painful, and had a lump on 
it the size of an eofSf where I had been whacked with 
the bamboo, and I was ravenously hungry, I moved 
off as fast as my rusty joints would allow me to do. 
Discovering the ship, 1 hailed her, raised a Hag of 
distress, and was promptly taken on board. The 
skipper seemed disposed to fall upon my neck and 
weep, but I asked him to order me a pint of Bass, tell 
the steward to prepare a bath, and I intimated that 
after thai 1 intended to go to bed. Curiously enough, 
the hunger had left me, but I found the Bass like nectar. 
For many hours I slept as sound as a top, and was 
none the worse for my little spree, beyond experiencing 
some stiffness for a few days and soreness from my 
broken pate. The carpenter's criticism of my expedi- 
tion was rather severe. " Man, you was an awfu' fule 
not tae dac as I did. They yellow deevils micht hae 
killed you. You shouldna" tak they kin' o' risks. 
The cfame's no worth the cannel." 

It is a curious thing that a week or two later I 
narrowly escaped being sent skyward by a bursting 
boiler. I was on my way to the ship as usual in the 

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o 
afternoon, when a large sailing ship was being towed 
up the river by two tugs, one ahead, and one lashed 
alongside. The latter was a high-pressure, snorting 
little wasp, the engineer, a young Englishman, being 
a friend of mine. As I hadn't seen him for some time 
I told my sampan fellow to row me to her. He pro- 
ceeded to do so, and when within fifty yards there 
was a terrific explosion. The boiler had burst, and every 
soul on board was killed. One of the Chinese hands 
was actually hurled into the foretop of the sailing ship, 
and the wreckacre of the boat fell all around, some of 
it on to my sampan. I need hardly say I was terribly 
shocked, for the wreck of the tug was so complete 
that it was only too obvious no one on board could 
have escaped. If I remember rightly, my poor friend's 
body was never recovered. 



8z 



CHAPTER III 

I leave Shanghai in a coasting junk for Amoy — I try to join the rebels, 
but am prevented — 1 return to Shanghai, and sail for New Guinea — 
Am the guest of a cannibal chief — A memorable feast and an un- 
desirable dish — I return to England, and start for the United States 
during the war — Riots in New York — Negroes hung on lamp- 
posts — Back in Manchester — I make the acquaintance of Toole, 
Irving, Charles Mathews, Joseph Jefferson, Charles Calvert, and 
others — I cross the Atlantic again — Fire panic on board — An 
exciting time — A man threatens to stab me — Revisit Australia — 
Come home round the Horn — Narrow escape from running into 
an iceberg — I proceed to London, and become the proprietor of a 
newspaper — Make the acquaintance of Field-Marshal Sir William 
Gomm, Shirley Brooks, Mark Lemon, Blanchard Jerrold, Tom 
Hood, William Brunton, Mark Twain, Joachim Miller, and others. 

The little incidents I have recorded in the last chapter 
served, to some extent, to relieve the monotony of 
those weary, weary days in that pest-ridden hole, 
where the sun blistered you like frizzling bacon, and 
people were dying like rotten sheep. It was the 
heiofht of summer, and the heat terrific. There was 
no escaping it, and then the sickness everywhere had 
a most depressing effect on one's nerves. 

One night I was playing cards on board a ship 
when I was suddenly seized with a strange and un- 
accountable illness, giddiness, internal pains, a cold 
perspiration, and tendency to vomit. As everyone at 
that time had a horror of cholera, and my friends 
jumped to the conclusion at once that I was in for it, 
the doctor's signal lamp was hoisted. In the course 

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of an hour a shore doctor came off, and though I was 
then better, and protested against being removed, the 
doctor, who Hke everyone else had cholera on the 
brain, bundled me off to the French hospital, and I 
was borne into the cholera ward, about as grim and 
ghastly a place as imagination could picture. There 
were patients in all stages of the horrible disease. I 
was attended by a Sister of Mercy, and to her 
I appealed to secure me a private room, for which I 
was willing to pay. She promised to see what could 
be done. But when two hours had passed, and nothing 
had been done, I could not endure the awful scene 
any longer, so got out of bed, and promenaded up 
and down the corridor. Presently an attendant came 
to me, and told me to follow him, and I was taken to a 
private room, where I was examined by a doctor, who 
said that I was not suffering from cholera, but violent 
and acute indigestion, but as I had been amongst 
cholera patients I must now go through quarantine, 
and be isolated for many days. It was not a cheering 
prospect, but I was compelled to submit to it. The 
law was very strict on the subject, and properly so. 
In two days I had quite recovered, but had to remain 
in the awful place a fortnight. My stay, however, 
was rendered endurable by a charming Sister, a little 
Irish lady, who was known as " Sister Mary." I fell 
desperately in love with her, but let my love lie con- 
cealed "like a worm i' the bud." She was one of 
God's angels, who had given up the world for the sake 
of suffering humanity. I never knew her by any other 
name than " Sister Mary," and I saw her no more 

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after I left the hospital, but I have never forgotten 
her. If she be living, may all the peace and content- 
ment that a well-spent life can bring be hers. I know 
that I was a better man for my short acquaintance 
with that heaven-sent woman. 

■ It seemed as if I was too tough to be killed easily, 
so having completed my period of quarantine, I was 
turned out, and felt like one lost. Needless to say, I 
got tired of kicking my heels doing nothing in such 
an inferno ; consequently I took passage in a coasting 
junk going down to Amoy, as a merry rebellion was 
in full swing, and I heard that the rebels were within 
fifteen miles of that ancient seaport. Some of my well- 
wishers, who were sadly lacking in humour, assured 
me that my throat would be slit before I had been at 
sea two days. I had " ma doots," however, for as I had 
escaped the cholera, the filthy water of the Shanghai 
River had not given me typhoid, the swamp leeches 
had failed to bleed me to death, and the explosion of 
the boiler had not extinguished me, it seemed to me 
that my destiny was unfulfilled. So to sea I went, 
and had a jolly time of it, though I was prevented 
by a lot of absurd sentries, with old matchlocks and 
scythes, from getting out of Amoy to join the rebels, 
who were being hammered by General Gordon. One 
night, however, I resolved to make a desperate effort 
to reach the open country, so made my way to the 
seashore when the tide was out. The cliffs extend 
for miles, gradually lessening in height until they 
reach a great open space running inland. On and 
on I tramped by the light of the moon. It was 

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monotonous and wearying, but I persevered. The 
sea thundered on the shore, and the spume saturated 
me. Sometimes I had to wade through creeks ; but 
I began to chuckle, as I seemed within measurable 
distance of succeeding in my stupid and quixotic 
enterprise. When I reached the open space, how- 
ever, my jaw dropped, and my chuckling ceased. 
There was a Chinese bivouac. I was promptly 
challeng-ed and seized. I assumed a magnificent air 
of injured innocence, tried to explain that I had 
simply been enjoying a stroll by the sad sea waves, 
and that my admiration for their splendid country was 
unbounded. The officer in charge spoke a little pidgin- 
English, so we hobnobbed. He gave me some stewed 
puppy, as I believed, and I washed it down with 
arrack. I then rolled myself in a rug he provided 
me with, and slept ; it was the sleep of the wicked 
deceiver, but it was none the less sound. The next 
day I was ignominiously marched back to Amoy 
between two guards armed with old matchlocks. 
Probably if that officer of the Imperial Chinese 
forces had guessed that my intention had been to 
throw in my lot with the rebels against the constituted 
authorities, the story would have been different. 

After a short stay in Amoy, during which I was initi- 
ated into the mysteries of fantan by a rascally old man- 
darin, who also gave me the material for my subse- 
quent book, published by Chatto & Windus under the 
title of "The Golden Idol." I returned to Shanghai, 
and soon afterwards went down in a Beche-de-mer, 
fishing schooner, to New Guinea. We sailed about 

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between there and the adjacent islands of New 
Britain, New Ireland, the Solomon group, etc., for 
many months, enjoyed a delightful time, and had a 
little excitement occasionally. We were forced to 
dodge the cannibals on the one hand, and the reefs 
and rocks on the other, and found it difficult to keep 
cool with the thermometer at anything from a ioo° F. 
to 1 30° F. in the shade. We did not catch many fish, 
but got plenty of fever, and had no cause to complain 
of monotony. It was a thousand times preferable to 
Shanghai. It was at this period that for the first 
time in my life I had the honour of being specially 
entertained by royalty. My esteemed host was a 
cannibal Chief or Kingr of New Britain. At first he 
seemed undecided whether I should form the chief 
dish at a banquet he contemplated as a means of cele- 
brating his success in wiping out a neighbouring tribe, 
or be his guest, and dine with him, instead of his 
dining off me. The gift on my part, however, of a 
brand new Sheffield jack-knife, which he took a fancy 
to, so touched his tender royal heart that he fell upon 
my neck, and vowed that I was his friend for ever- 
more. He thereupon invited me to his palace, which 
consisted of a hole in the ground covered over with a 
sort of gigantic beehive. That evening I was pub- 
licly entertained at dinner in the town hall, or 
Corroborie house, to give it its local name. It was a 
large bamboo mud hut, tastefully decorated with the 
skulls of mine host's dead enemies. I am sorry I 
cannot reproduce the menu, but it was varied and 
tasty, very tasty. The chief dish was stewed snake 

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served with putrid shark-blubber sauce. It was one 
of those things which cHng : I very often recall the 
flavour of it now, and find some difficulty in suppress- 
ing a shudder. It was unlike any other flavour that 
I remember. The sole vintage we quaffed that night 
was " Kava," made from the saliva of my royal host's 
favourite wives. We sat on the ground, used our 
fingers for forks, and found the way to our mouths by 
the light of some peculiar torches that gave off suffo- 
cating fumes. Altogether the feast was a pronounced 
success, and I remained with my friend three 
days until I had recovered from the effects of the 
right royal feast, and then bade him a long and 
tender farewell. I fancy he was more sorry to part 
from me than I from him. Ultimately I had to go 
back to that awful hole, Shanghai, and after a hurried 
trip to Hong Kong, Singapore, and a few other places, 
I returned home in a sailing ship that was about six 
months on the passage, during which we ran short of 
provisions. Everything on board was rotten. We 
put into St Helena, and purchased some Government 
stores, which turned out to be infinitely worse than 
anything we had on board. We were harassed with 
cockroaches and many other disagreeable things, and 
to make matters worse, several of the crew were ill 
with scurvy. However, we reached port at last, to 
the intense joy of everyone on board. 

During my absence my eldest sister had become 
the wife of a wealthy Lancashire cotton spinner, and I 
received a commisson from him and a partner of his, 
a Mr Maurice Williams of Liverpool, to proceed to 

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America on a delicate errand, which was nothing 
more nor less than to try and secure some blockade- 
runners to g'et cotton out. The Civil War was at its 
height, and I had a real good time, though I was un- 
able to carry out the duty entrusted to me, but that 
was not my fault ; it was rather my misfortune. 
There were difficulties in the way of accomplishing 
my purpose which we had not calculated upon. I re- 
turned to England to discuss the situation with my 
relative, the result being that I went back to the 
States, and ultimately found myself in New York 
when the terrible riots took place against the Con- 
scription Act. I saw several niggers strung up to the 
lamp-posts near Central Park, and was in more than 
one scrimmage. Pandemonium reigned for several 
days, and an enormous amount of property was de- 
stroyed. I fancy sometimes that, like the harmless, 
necessary cat, I have possessed nine lives, otherwise it 
is difficult for me to account for the narrow shaves I 
have pulled through. To the present day I am 
puzzled to understand how I came out scathless from 
those riots. What I do know is I had a real good 
time and plenty of fun. It chanced also that I was 
in America when President Lincoln was shot in 
Ford's Theatre, Washington, by Wilkes Booth, and 
subsequently I tried to see his body lying in state, 
but did not succeed owing to the enormous crowds, who 
were formed in a long queue, and moved a few inches 
at a time. At last I determined that a dead man, 
though he had been a president, wasn't worth all the 
trouble and discomfort, and I abandoned the attempt. 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

My mission was a complete failure, and I returned 
home rather disheartened. I don't think my brother- 
in-law ever forgave me. He thought that the failure 
was my fault. Perhaps he was right. 

A break now occurred in my wanderings, and I 
came to anchor for a time in Manchester again, where 
many of my relatives were still residing. I made the 
acquaintance of John L. Toole, Henry Irving, Charles 
Mathews, Joseph Jefferson of "Rip Van Winkle" 
fame, Charles Calvert, and others. At the back of 
the Prince's Theatre at that time there was an old- 
fashioned ale-house of the true Lancashire type. At 
a certain hour in the evening Irving could always be 
found in the snuggery of that inn playing dominoes, a 
game he was very fond of. I used to think then that 
he was just the sort of man who would certainly make 
his way in the world. He was peculiarly thought- 
ful, and paid great attention to petty details that the 
average man would have scorned to trouble himself 
about. I remember one night when I was present 
Irving was greatly annoyed by a derogative remark 
made by a young actor, then unknown, but who subse- 
quently made a name for himself. It was personal to 
Irving, who was greatly angered, and he exclaimed, 
with considerable heat : " I'm going to mount to the 
very top of my profession, and compel the world to 
recognise me just as sure as you are a living man." 

It was a prophecy, and we know now that it was to 
come true. 

At that time Irving was a thin, delicate-looking 
man, with long, flowing hair, a peculiarly pensive 

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expression, and a quiet, reserved manner, that had a 
tendency to suggest to anyone who was not familiar 
with him that he was unsociable. Although in those 
days he could not have been very well off, he spent 
his money with a free hand, and I know of many 
little acts of kindness that stand to his credit. 

Jefferson was also a man of marked personality, 
unmistakably American, slow and deliberate in his 
speech and movements, and in his general appearance 
suggesting a well-to-do farmer with an eye to crops, 
rather than an actor. His Rip Van Winkle was an 
inimitable performance. I have seen other Rips 
since, but no one who would bear comparison with 
Jefferson. In private life he was a charming man, 
and full of those qualities that win the hearts of men. 

It was my good fortune to be in Manchester during 
some of the Shakespearian revivals at the Prince's 
Theatre under Charles Calvert's manas^ement. 
Calvert had gifts of no common order, but he laboured 
against physical drawbacks which heavily handicapped 
him. He was a little, squat-built man, and therefore 
disqualified from essaying such roles as Macbeth, 
Antony, Othello, King Lear, etc. And yet he 
played these parts, and so perfect was his acting, so 
excellent his elocution, that his lack of inches was 
condoned for. Even at this period of time, with riper 
judgment and wider experiences, I still consider that 
Calvert was a great actor. The first time I ever saw 
him was sometime in the early sixties. I was paying 
a flying visit to London, and accompanied friends 
one evening to the Standard Theatre in Shoreditch. 

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A Mr Charles Calvert and Miss Adelaide Biddies 
(Mrs Calvert) were starring there. They appeared 
in a sensational piece, I remember, called The 
Flower Girl, and in Triboulet : the Deformed. I 
was struck by the excellence of Calvert's acting and 
the smallness of his stature. When years afterwards 
I came to know him as manager of the Prince's 
Theatre in Manchester, he had grown much stouter and 
much more subdued and refined as an actor. One of 
his early productions was Macbeth. When the play 
was put into rehearsal an innovation was decided 
upon, which was that the part of Hecate should be 
played by a woman, and for this purpose the services 
of a Miss Pauline Markham were secured. Miss 
Markham had been studying music, I believe, in 
London, but whether she had much stage experience 
or not I don't know. She was a most beautiful young 
girl, with a perfect figure and a wonderful voice. I 
was on the stage when she appeared for the first 
rehearsal. She was so overcome with nervousness 
that she could barely speak, let alone sing. The 
impression she made as an actress was far from 
favourable, and the company predicted failure. " It 
is absurd," said one, "to cast an inexperienced girl 
like that for such an exacting part as Hecate." 
" She'll simply mangle it," said another. She falsified 
all the gloomy forebodings, however, and took the 
town by storm. She was beautiful, she was talented, 
but that was not all : the rich, full tones of her clear, 
young voice thrilled those who listened to her ; it 
was a voice of extraordinary range and compass, and 

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highly cultivated. Miss Markham became the rage 
of Manchester. She essayed many parts, and in all 
was successful. Her Myles-na-Copleen, in a burlesque 
of the Colleen Bawn, was a new role, but proved her 
versatility. A great future was predicted for her, but, 
alas ! what a tragedy was her after career. Some 
years passed when, still a young woman, but a wreck 
and despised, she was picked up in a street in 
Brooklyn in a dying condition, and was buried at 
the expense of the Actors' Association. Poor 
Pauline ! She flashed like a meteor through the 
theatrical firmament, but her descent was rapid, and 
she died broken-hearted, and as an outcast, in a 
strange land. It will be remembered that she went 
to America with Lydia Thompson's "Blonde 
Burlesque Troupe," and was with Lydia when that 
energetic young lady cow-hided an editor in the 
streets of Chicago. 

Among other notable productions of Calvert's was 
Manfred. As he had surprised and delighted 
Manchester with Shakespearian revivals, so he drew 
all the town to witness Byron's gloomy tragedy, 
staged as it had never been staged before, and as 
in all probability it will never be staged again. It 
was produced, if I remember rightly, in the early part 
of 1867. As far as scenic and stage effects go, it is 
doubtful if Manchester had ever seen anything like it. 
I did not witness it until it had nearly run its course, 
as I had to make another hasty trip to America. 
During the passage across the Atlantic there was 
an alarm of fire, and a dreadful panic ensued which, 

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VI 


1 

•it 


^^^lifti *' ^^Hr'^iffH 


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but for the courage and coolness of the captain and 
his officers, would have resulted in an appalling disaster. 
There were many emigrants on board, including a 
number of Germans, and they became completely 
demoralised. When the panic was at its height I 
saw a German seize a woman by her long hair, and 
drag her off the companion ladder as she was en- 
deavouring to gain the deck. When he came within 
reach of me he turned a somersault backward, and 
disappeared, and I found that some skin had also dis- 
appeared from my knuckles. I always suspected 
that excitable German of being responsible for the 
loss of my skin. Subsequently I heard he had vowed 
that he would not be happy until he had let out my 
blood. But as the operation was not considered 
desirable, the gentleman was handcuffed, and locked 
up in a cabin, where I imagine his ardour cooled. 
Anyway, I did not see him eigain during the passage. 
On returning from America, after a short sojourn 
in Manchester, I took up my residence for a time with 
some relatives in London, one of them being con- 
nected with the Press, and through him I made the 
acquaintance of the genial showman, E. P. Hingston. 
It was mainly through this gentleman that Artemus 
Ward, the greatest humorist of his age, was induced 
to come to London with his celebrated " Panorama." 
Hingston in many respects was a remarkable man. 
He had travelled most extensively, had been editor, 
actor, entrepreneur, and goodness knows what else. 
He and Artemus had wandered all through California, 
and the Wild West when it was wild. They toured 

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Colorado, went to Salt Lake City, and were entertained 
by, and entertained, Brigham Young. Ward subse- 
quently delivered a most amusing lecture on the 
Mormons, which was enormously successful in the 
States. It was the dream of his life to come to 
London, but he was very doubtful whether the English 
public would receive him kindly. He was afraid they 
might not appreciate his peculiar humour. However, 
Kingston overcame these scruples, and the two men 
duly arrived in London. Ward's fame had long 
preceded him, and the announcement that he would 
appear at the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly, London, 
provoked a great deal of curiosity and Press comment. 
Ward was a refined and courteous gentleman, tall 
and thin, with singularly brilliant eyes, pearly white 
teeth, a large Roman nose, and light hair. He was 
no less conspicuous by the most beautiful and perfectly 
shaped hands imaginable, but also they were the hands 
of a man doomed to an early grave. The blue veins 
showed through the white skin, and the nails were of 
the shape usually associated with a delicate constitution. 
Ward indeed, was already death-stricken when he 
came to England. Almost immediately on his arrival 
in London he was engaged by Mark Lemon to con- 
tribute a series of articles to Punch. 

On Tuesday, 13th November 1866, he gave his 
first lecture at the Egyptian Hall. It was my privilege 
to be present, and at a later period to become person- 
ally acquainted with this remarkable man. The room 
he appeared in was the one which had formerly been 
occupied by Arthur Sketchley. On the night of his 

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d^but the place was packed, for the most part by 
Pressmen and friends. It was, in fact, a private show, 
though the demand for seats was so great that some 
of the pubHc were admitted. Hundreds, however, 
who clamoured for admission had to go away dis- 
appointed. If the hall had been twenty times as large 
it could have been filled. 

The humorist called his lecture "The Babes in the 
Wood." On a friend expressing surprise that he 
should so name it, as it had no earthly reference to 
the nursery story, he replied: "No; it hasn't, but it 
sounds nice, you know; though I've half a mind to 
call it My Seven Grandmothers, but then, of course, 
somebody would object that I had too many grand- 
mothers. It is hard to please everyone, and there are 
so many clever people in the world ready on the 
slightest provocation to find fault with you." 

If ever there was a genial, gentle soul, it was 
Artemus Ward (Charles Farrar Browne). Wit oozed 
out of him, and he said funny things with an apparent 
unconsciousness that they were funny. He never 
laughed himself. His face was pathetic and sad, his 
nature kindly and deeply sympathetic. You did not 
want to talk when you were in his presence ; you were 
content to let him do the talking. His voice was clear 
as a bell and peculiarly magnetic ; it seemed to grip 
you. He spoke with a very slight twang that was 
rather an attraction than otherwise. 

On the opening night of the show Hingston intro- 
duced him in a neat little speech, and claimed the 
indulgence of those present for any nervousness the 

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entertainer might display on this his first public ap- 
pearance in London. He said it was a critical moment 
for Ward, and his fate trembled in the balance. Then 
Ward rose, came down to the footlights, and stood 
silent, casting his deep-set, brilliant eyes over the vast 
audience, and twiddling his thumbs in the most uncon- 
cerned way. A minute or two passed ; under such 
circumstances it seemed much longer. The audience 
became fidgety. I heard one old gentleman sitting 
near me exclaim to a lady at his side : " What a fool ; 
why doesn't he say something ? " Once more silence 
fell upon the assembly, but the imperturbable man 
stood twiddling his thumbs. A murmur of disapproval 
swept like a wave over the audience, then a little more 
clapping, a little more stamping, followed by a silence 
during which a pin might almost have been heard to 
fall. At last, in his inimitable drawl. Ward spoke : 

" Ladies — and — gentlemen. When— you — have 
finished this — unseemly interruption, I guess I'll begin 
my discourse." 

It was as if an electric shock had passed through 
the people. They saw the humour of the situation. 
They rose to it. And seldom has a showman received 
such an ovation. The audience almost raised the roof 
with their cheers and applause, and it was fully five 
minutes before he could proceed. From that moment 
he became the idol of London. 

" If I can make money enough to buy me a passage 
to New Zealand," he said in the course of his 
remarks, *' I shall not have lived in vain. I don't 
want to live in vain. I would rather live in Margate, 

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orlurc. Hut I wish vvlu-n the Ejj^y[)ti;ins built this hall 
they had provided a little more ventilation. Perhaps 
the l^«:;y[)tians didn't like air ; anyway, the I''L;"y[)tians 
who luiilt this hall didn't." 

VUc lecture was an enormous success. Me mij^ht 
have enjoyed public support lor years, but death had 
already stricken him, and he had to oive up the work 
in the ninth or tenth week, and on one or two 
occasions in the course oi that lime he had to dismiss 
his audience, as he was too ill to appear, it was 
all terribly pathetic and sad. He struuj^led bravely, 
nobly, but the fatal weakness increased. Hy the advice 
of his doctor he wiMit lor a short tinu^ to JcTsey, but 
derived no benefit, and he wrote to one of his dearest 
friends in the Savage Club : " My loneliness wcii'i'hs 
ujjon me." lie was brouij^ht back, but was ttx) ill to 
oet lartluM- than Southampton, and he stayed at 
Kadley's 1 lotcl. I'^verything was done that human 
skill could do, though it was all of no avail, and on 
the 6th March 1S67, to the intense sorrow of a lar^c; 
circle of devoted friends, he drifted out to a bdter 
world. Poor fellow! Me was a laut;hter-maker, and 
this world was the poorer when he wc;nt. 

1 shall have occasion to make further reference to 
his death, and an uniiappy incident that arose out ol 
it, when 1 come to deal with the Savage Club. He 
ajipointed \\. P. 1 linoston and T. W. Robertson, the 
dramatic author, his extrcutors, and as tar as it was 
possible to do so, those two Gentlemen fullillt:d all his 
last wishes. 

That Artemus Ward was a humorist of the very 
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highest rank is, I venture to say, undoubted. And 
yet it wasn't so much what he said as the manner in 
which he said it. His solemn face, with his inimitable 
manner of telling a joke, sent his audience into fits of 
lauo^hter. 

In speaking of his panorama, he remarked : 

" I haven't distinguished myself as an artist, but 
have always been mixed up in art. I have an uncle 
who takes photographs in his sane moments, and a 
servant who takes everything he can lay his hands on 
at any moment. At a very tender age I could draw 
on wood. When a mere child I once drew a small 
cart load of raw turnips over a wooden bridge. It 
was a raw morning. The people of the village 
noticed me. They recognised the drawing at once. 
They said it was a raw turnip drawing. That shows 
how faithfully I had copied nature. I drew their 
attention to it, so you see there was a lot of drawing 
in it. The villagers, with the wonderful discernment 
peculiar to villagers, said I had a future before me. 
As I was walking backward when I made my 
drawing, I replied that I thought my future must 
be behind me." 

On another occasion, referring to a part of his 
panorama, he said : 

"This picture is a great work of art. It is an oil 
painting done in petroleum. It is by the old masters. 
There were a lot of them, you know. At one time 
they were like the measles : everybody had them. 
This picture was the last thing they did before dying. 
They did it, and expired. They ought to have been 

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hanged, but they weren't ; they were immortalised 
instead, but they were a poor lot of mortals." 

Of another of his so-called pictures he said : 

" When I first showed this in America the audience 
roared for the artist. When he appeared bowing and 
smiling, they promptly shot him. It was a deserving 
end." 

Another screamingly funny story was that of the 
living skeleton. 

"I hired at immense expense," he went on, "a 
freak, a living skeleton. He was so thin you could 
see through him, and when he moved his bones 
rattled. I intended to exhibit him in Australia, but 
on the voyage he developed a prodigious appetite. 
He said it was the air. He ate six square meals a 
day, and between meals he used to stave off the 
pangs of hunger with a few dozen hard-boiled eggs. 
I told him he was a fraud, and I couldn't exhibit him 
as a skeleton. He wept, and ate more food. He said 
the sea agreed with him. There were no clothes on 
board the ship big enough for him. The consequence 
was I took him back to California, and exhibited him 
as the fat man. But he soon got thin again on land, 
so I buried him, as I had no time to make another 
voyage to fatten him up." 

Still funnier was the story about the Mormon 
elder. He made the acquaintance of a very nice 
man in Utah, and presented him with a free pass for 
himself and family to come into the show. " They 
commenced, he and his family, to come in an hour 
before the show was timed to begin, and they were 

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coming in for an hour after the time. They filled 
every seat, and then there was an overflow. I guess 
I lost heavily by that deal. They said they didn't 
think much of me as a showman, and I retorted by 
telling them they were the cheapest lot as an audience 
I had ever struck." 

One of Ward's posters announcing his show ran 
thus : 

ARTEMUS WARD DELIVERED LECTURES 

BEFORE ALL THE CROWNED HEADS 

OF EUROPE 

ever thought of delivering lectures. 

My acquaintance with Artemus Ward was only slight, 
but he fascinated me, as indeed he fascinated every- 
one who came to know him. He continued to joke 
almost up to the hour of his death. He had been 
projecting a journey through the Western States of 
America with a friend, and in order to try and cheer 
him up, this friend, while sitting at his bedside in 
Southampton, said : 

"We'll do that journey yet, Artemus." 

The poor fellow held up his long, thin, white, 
almost transparent hands, and with a grim smile, 
remarked : 

" Do you think those hands are fit to hold the reins ? 
Why, my dear fellow, there isn't a horse living but 
would laugh at them." 

A few days later Artemus Ward was dead, in his 

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thirty-first year, and the place he left vacant has 
never been filled. 

In the course of '68 I once more found myself in 
Melbourne, and my kinsman, to whom I have already 
made some reference, offered to give me a position. 
I had personal reasons, however, for declining it, and 
I stayed for a time with a cousin of mine, a fine 
young fellow, though rather erratic. He had held an 
appointment in the Post Office, but had foolishly 
thrown it up, and was wondering what he should do 
next. My wandering propensities affected him, I 
fancy, for he very seriously proposed that I should 
accompany him, and tramp right across Australia to 
Torres Straits. It was a mad proposal, of course, 
for it wanted a well-organised and plentifully equipped 
expedition for such a journey. At that time, how- 
ever, I could not see the madness of it. I deemed it 
quite feasible, and we began to discuss our plans. 
Fortunately for us perhaps, he was unexpectedly 
offered a very good appointment in one of the largest 
firms in Melbourne. This changed the whole aspect 
of affairs. He accepted the offer, and our tramp did 
not come off I remained in the colony for a little 
time, and wandered about, until suddenly I took it 
into my head to return to England, and shipped on 
board a large sailing ship going round the Horn. 
We fell in with terrific weather, and were driven far 
south. One wild, black night we escaped by the skin 
of our teeth only, from crashing into a huge iceberg. 
How narrow the escape was may be determined by 
the fact that our flying jib-boom was carried away. I 

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stood on the foc'sle during an exciting ten minutes or 
so, and was cut and bruised by pieces of flying ice 
driven before the gale. However, we managed to get 
clear, and once round the Horn we ran into better 
weather, and made a fairly good passage to London. 

I had not long been at home before I was induced 
to purchase a London weekly local paper which had 
some political influence. I enlarged its sphere, and 
added features which increased its influence and its 
usefulness, I presume, since the political party it re- 
presented gave me a considerable measure of support. 
I also started a little monthy magazine which I called 
The Coro7iet. But it had a short life, due mainly to an 
unwitting infringement on my part of a copyright, and 
I was threatened with an action for damages by the 
late Sir Isaac Pitman. A friend of mine had under- 
taken to contribute some shorthand articles illustrated 
with certain diagrams, in which Mr Pitman claimed 
exclusive copyright. My friend was the late Mr E. 
H, Bramley, one of the cleverest shorthand writers in 
London. He was subsequently elected minuting 
clerk to the London School Board, and retained the 
position almost up to the time of his death, a short 
while ago. He strenuously maintained that Pitman 
had no legal right in the diagrams ; but I was not 
prepared to stand the test of a lawsuit, so I stopped 
the articles, and the magazine died. 

Among the many supporters of my paper was that 
perfect gentleman and fine soldier, Field - Marshal 
Sir William Gomm, G.C. B,, then Constable of the 
Tower. He was a very old man when I made his 

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acquaintance. He was born about the end of the 
eighteenth century, and had seen much service, in- 
cluding the Battle of Waterloo, being then quarter- 
master-general under Sir Thomas Picton. He was 
subsequently Governor and Commander-in-Chief of 
Mauritius, and later still Commander-in-Chief in 
India, which position he relinquished in 1 855, so that he 
escaped the Mutiny. I have in my possession a short 
note — a few almost indecipherable lines — he wrote 
to me a short time before his death. It was probably 
one of the last he ever penned. He was then about 
ninety years of age. Sir William was a man of the 
most fascinating personality, singularly modest, and 
with an old-world courtesy that was charming. 

I was also well acquainted with Colonel Beresford, 
M.P. for Southwark, and a wharfinger in a large way 
of business in Bermondsey. The Colonel was Con- 
servative Member for the borough ; but I always 
thought that at times he was a bit wobbly in his 
politics. Anyway, he was a nervous man and an ex- 
ceedingly poor speaker. His speeches were carefully 
written for him by his secretary, and the Colonel used 
to make an effort to deliver them, but his nervousness 
was responsible for a good many ludicrous situations. 
On one occasion I was present at the Bridge House 
Hotel, Southwark, when he was to address his con- 
stituents, and there was a great uproar. He held his 
hat in his hand, with his MS. at the bottom of it, but 
he was so flurried at the manifestations of impatience 
on the part of the free and independent voters that 
he made a hopeless muddle of his speech. Then the 

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meeting broke up in confusion, and a young man who 
had been one of the chief disturbers, dexterously 
planted an egg of great antiquity against the Colonel's 
immaculate shirt front. I was quite near him at the 
time, and even now I can recall the aroma of that egg. 
The poor Colonel was quite overcome, and beat a hasty 
and, it must be confessed, a somewhat ignominious 
retreat. On the following morning I called on him at 
his request, and handing me the MS. of the speech he 
had never delivered, he said I must print it verbatim 
in my paper. On my declining to do so there was a 
scene, but subsequently he apologised, and we became 
good friends. 

Another of my acquaintances was Mark Lemon, 
who in the early days of my editorship was appearing 
publicly in a monologue entertainment, in which he 
represented that amusing old rascal. Sir John Falstafif. 
He was a big, heavy man, rather slow and ponderous 
in his movements. I once heard him tell a story of 
an encounter he had with a footpad. " And what did 
you do.'*" asked somebody. "Oh, I fell on him." 
"With what result?" "He was in the hospital for 
six weeks," answered the cheery Mark. If the story 
was true, the footpad was fortunate in escaping with 
his life. 

It was also my privilege to know Shirley Brooks, and 
BlanchardJerrold,whowasa most delightful companion 
and an exceedingly clever man. Blanchard succeeded 
his father as editor of Lloyds, and in this connection 
I may refer to a well-authenticated incident which 
testifies to the big-heartedness of Douglas Jerrold. 

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When Mr Edward Lloyd asked him to undertake the 
editorship of Lloyds Weekly Newspaper, he at first 
decHned, without giving any adequate reason. But 
the reason, as was subsequently proved, was that 
poor E. P. Hingston, who was down on his luck, 
was temporarily editing the paper, and Douglas did 
not wish to throw him out of employment. Douglas 
Jerrold did subsequently occupy the editorial chair, 
and at his death he was succeeded by his eldest son, 
William Blanchard, who was a most voluminous writer, 
and contributed largely to contemporary literature. It 
is not generally known that George Augustus Sala 
was also connected with Mr Lloyd's establishment, 
and used to illustrate the cheap stories which were 
then issued by the firm. That was before G. A. S. 
took to writing. I became acquainted with Blanchard 
Jerrold at the time that his comedy Cupid in Wait- 
ing was being performed at the Royalty Theatre. 
George Augustus Sala was another of my acquaint- 
ances, and at a subsequent period I became intimate 
with him. Then there were Tom Hood, the younger, 
editor of Fun ; Henry Sampson, his sub-editor, and 
subsequently founder and editor of that clever paper 
The Referee ; William Brunton, a well-known artist 
and cartoonist for Fun ; Henry Van Laun, the brilliant 
linguist and translator ; William Tinsley, the well- 
known publisher ; Christopher Pond, the presiding 
genius of the firm of Spiers & Pond ; the erratic 
and clever " Jack " O'Shea of The Standard, and many 
another genial and clever Bohemian, all of whom have 
passed to a better world. 

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At a later stage I was present at the Hanover 
Square Rooms, when Mark Twain made his bow to 
the London Press. His coming had been heralded 
by much flourishing of trumpets, but, speaking for 
myself, I was greatly disappointed. Perhaps it was 
that I was prejudiced. Anyway, I compared him with 
Artemus Ward, greatly to the disadvantage of Twain, 
who seemed to me to copy Ward's methods without 
success. In 1873 another distinguished American 
visitor came to London in the person of Joachim 
Miller, the " Poet of the Sierras," a rugged, long- 
haired son of genius, in whom the poetic fire burned 
fiercely. He was a singularly picturesque and striking 
figure, a native of California, and he seemed somehow 
to carry about with him the magnificent tonic atmos- 
phere of the Sierras of which he sang so sweetly. I 
liked the man, and we became friendly. We had both 
roughed it, and could talk travel, so there was a bond 
of sympathy between us. He was a genial optimist, 
looked at the bright side of everything, and seemed to 
overflow with animal spirits. 

One evening we forgathered when I was labour- 
ing under some sense of depression. Possibly I had 
an attack of liver ; anyway, I expressed an opinion 
that I had missed my way in life, and drawn a blank. 
He badgered me a good deal, and the following day, 
or the day after that, I forget which, he handed me 
an exquisite little poem, which I reproduce here, 
although I believe it now appears in his collected 
poems. I think, however, that I may claim to have 
inspired it. 

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TO THOSE WHO FAIL 

All honour to him who shall win the prize, 
The world has cried for a thousand years ; 

But to him who tries, and who fails and dies, 
I give great honour and glory and tears. 

Give honour and glory and pitiful tears 
To all who fail in their deeds sublime ; 

The ghosts are many in the van of years. 

They were born with time in advance of time. 

Oh, great is the hero who wins a name. 

But greater many and many a time 
Some pale-faced fellow who dies in shame, 

And lets God finish the thoughts sublime. 

And great is the man with a sword undrawn. 
And good is the man who refrains from wine. 

But the man who fails and yet still fights on, 
Lo, he is the twin-born brother of mine. 

Much water has flowed beneath the bridges since 
the httle incident I have here related, but the rugged 
poet is still in the flesh, I beheve. No doubt he 
has long since forgotten me, but he made far too 
deep an impression on my mind for me to forget him. 
We may never meet again, but if, perchance, he reads 
these lines he will know that one of his early friends 
in England remembers him with affection. Another 
man with whom I was particularly intimate in those 
far-off days was Captain Mayne Reid. Many a time 
and oft have we forgathered in what was then a famed 
Fleet Street hostelry. If ever there was an optimistic 
Bohemian of the good old type, it was Mayne Reid. 

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He suffered from chronic impecuniosity, for he and 
money couldn't hold together. He used to say that 
those who hoarded money only existed. The man 
who wanted to live spent his money. I remember on 
one occasion he obtained a considerable sum, several 
hundreds of pounds, for some copyrights. The money 
was paid by a crossed cheque, and as Reid had no 
banking account there was a difficulty in the way of 
getting money immediately, which was an all-im- 
portant matter. Reid was in a hurry to chink the 
golden sovereigns together. He had asked two or 
three people to cash the cheque, but an objection was 
raised in every case. I happened to meet him at the 
psychological moment ; he told me his difficulties, and 
explained that though legally entitled to the amount 
set forth on the slip of paper, which was in his pocket- 
book, the ready money exchequer, owing to an extra- 
ordinary leakage, was reduced to the last penny, 
which he retained there in order that he migfht be 
afforded protection from the wiles and artifices of his 
Satanic majesty. It chanced, however, that I had 
more than a penny ; so, like loyal men, we drank the 
health of Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen, 
and then proceeded by cab to the city, where a 
merchant friend of mine undertook to pass the cheque 
through his bank, and generously advanced a sum 
sufficient for immediate needs. In a moment of 
generosity, as soon as he received the full amount of his 
cheque, Reid invited me to make a tour of the world 
with him. I suggested that the wealth at his com- 
mand would hardly suffice for our wants during such 

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a journey. " Not suffice," he exclaimed, " not suffice 
for two men like us, who can sleep on clothes-lines, 
and sup off maggots ! " The tour, of course, was not 
undertaken, and in a short time my dear friend had 
spent his last dollar, and was dreaming dreams again. 
I remember discussing a plan with him which, if I 
didn't originate, I was one of the first to give it 
practical shape. The increase of morning and even- 
ing papers was making it more and more difficult for 
weekly journals to keep up their circulation. The 
weekly reader was beginning to demand more than 
a mere rechauffage of the week's news ; I therefore 
proposed supplying the small fry throughout the 
country with fiction for simultaneous publication. 
We discussed the idea with Wilkie Collins, who was 
a warm friend of Reid's, and he highly approved of it. 
I proceeded at once to carry it out as far as I was 
concerned. It chanced that a man had been captured 
in India who was supposed to be the notorious Nana 
Sahib, the " Butcher of Cawnpore," and Gordon 
Thompson, who was one of the survivors of the 
Cawnpore massacre, was on his way up country from 
Calcutta to identify him. The excitement in England 
was great, and taking advantage of it, I rapidly wrote 
a story of the Indian Mutiny under the title of " The 
Great White Hand," and offered it to the weekly 
Press. The success of my enterprise far exceeded 
my anticipations — that story turned me over from 
first to last about ;!^i500 — and applications for more 
fiction came to me by almost every post. It was 
about that time that Messrs Tillotson of Bolton came 

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into existence as " Purveyors of fiction," and they 
entered into a contract with me. But when it ex- 
pired I again had command of a very large cH6ntele. 
" Purveyors," however, and agencies cropped up by 
dozens and scores, and soon the game wasn't worth 
the candle. Among my very early clients was the 
late Mr Charles Alexander, then proprietor of The 
Dundee Weekly News and Daily Courier. I have a 
letter before me from Mr Alexander with reference 
to a serial, in which he says : " Our weekly circulation 
is about 17,000 or 18,000 a week, and if you can raise 
it we shall recognise your services in a very sub- 
stantial way." It is gratifying to me to be able to 
say that I did raise the circulation. However, this is 
somewhat anticipating, and I shall have occasion to 
refer to my connection with Dundee later on. 



iio 



CHAPTER IV 

I witness the execution of another woman — The fire-eaters — A threatened 
fight, and how it ended — Opening of the Criterion — Death of my 
friend, Tom Hood — I make the acquaintance of Benjamin Ward 
Richardson and George Cruikshank — The latter dances the 
Highland Fling for me when he was over eighty — I stop my 
paper, and join James Henderson's staff — Become a special corre- 
spondent of TJie Hour — The Bravo mystery — Am present at the 
exhumation of the body — Am sent to meet the Prince of Wales on 
his home-coming from India — Amusing experience with Archibald 
Forbes — I proceed to Scotland — The Greenock Advertiser. 

In a previous chapter I mentioned that I witnessed 
the execution of the notorious poisoner, Catherine 
Wilson. About the end of 1870 it fell to my lot to 
be present at the hanging of another woman — the 
no less notorious Margaret Waters, the baby 
farmer. She was convicted in September of that 
year, and sentenced to death. The penalty was 
carried out in the courtyard of the Old Horse- 
monger Lane Jail, and, if I am not mistaken, was the 
first execution in private in London of a woman 
after the passing of the Act abolishing executions in 
public. Unlike Catherine Wilson, the convict in this 
instance was a little, ugly woman. Nor did she display 
any of the courage which Wilson had shown. Indeed, 
Margaret Waters was so overcome as the hour of her 
doom approached that she had to be fortified with 
stimulants. As she emerged from the condemned 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

cell she was a pitiable object, and was almost carried 
to the scaffold. Twice during the short journey she 
faltered, and would have stumbled had she not been 
supported. An instant or so before the bolt was 
pulled she pitched forward, and must have been half 
strangled before the trap fell. There were about 
eight or nine reporters present, and two of them were 
so overcome that they fainted. 

From 1870 to 1874 I carried on my paper. During 
that period my first book was published by Tinsley 
Brothers. It had been running as a serial ; William 
Tinsley had read it, and made me an offer for the 
book rights, which I accepted, having faith in his 
judgment. 

The book was a dismal failure, though that didn't 
prevent Samuel Tinsley, the brother of William, who 
had set up a business on his own account in Catherine 
Street, from publishing a second book from my pen, 
which proved more successful, and ran into two or 
three three-volume editions. 

I have elsewhere made passing reference to 
Thomas Hood, the distinguished son of a distin- 
guished father, who was as gentle a creature as ever 
breathed the breath of life. He had beautiful 
features, and dark, pathetic eyes, like those of a 
gazelle. At the time I knew him he was editing Fun. 
Henry Sampson was the sub-editor, and William 
Brunton, a very clever artist, the cartoonist. Hood 
had published a book ; the title of it, if I remember 
rightly, was "The Golden Heart." It was rather 
roughly handled in The Weekly Dispatch. The 

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writer of the slating notice was supposed to be a 
man named Sydney French. Poor Hood's morbidly 
sensitive nature was terribly hurt, and he vowed to 
have Sydney French's blood. For Hood, who 
couldn't hurt a worm, to talk of having anyone's 
blood was really comical. Moreover, French was a 
little, delicate man, suffering from a mortal disease, 
and with no more fight in him than a frost-bitten 
butterfly. But when he heard that Hood was going 
about seeking to devour him, he smote his narrow 
chest, and declared that he would break the valiant 
Tom into minute particles. It afforded Fleet Street 
a good deal of amusement. If little French happened 
to be in one of the haunts, someone would slip in and 
whisper in his ear that Hood was coming, and very 
soon French would mysteriously disappear. On the 
other hand. Hood was warned not to enter such and 
such a place, as French was there panting for the 
encounter, and Hood would suddenly remember that 
he had a pressing engagement in the opposite direction. 
Nevertheless, the two gentle penmen breathed fire 
and slaughter, and right valiantly did they bear them- 
selves. Then the longed-for opportunity for the 
deadly encounter did arrive. Messrs Spiers & 
Pond threw open their splendid Criterion premises 
to the Press on a memorable Saturday prior to the 
public opening on the following Monday. The 
Criterion was a new departure for London. There 
had never been anything like it before, and the con- 
ception of it by Mr Pond (for I believe he originated 
it) reflected the highest credit upon his enterprise. 
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He and his partner, Mr Spiers, determined that the 
new premises should be inaugurated in a manner 
befittinof such a huoe undertaking-. Somethincr Hke 
a thousand invitations were issued, including editors 
of the principal papers throughout the country. It 
was Liberty Hall for the nonce, with unbounded 
hospitality. Invitations to the Press had been sent 
out broadcast, and, of course, the two deadly enemies 
were there, each with his crowd of sympathisers, who 
urged him to give no quarter, show no mercy. Each 
was well primed with champagne to strengthen him 
for the deadly struggle, and gradually, with many 
words of warning from his respective backers to be 
on his guard, and much advice as to how the foe was 
to be reduced to uselessness, the two were brought 
together. In this matter Henry Sampson, who was 
an amateur bruiser, played a prominent part, and the 
agony was worked up to a melodramatic pitch. The 
opponents were brought together in the large hall. 
Hood's usually pallid face was slightly flushed, and 
his dreamy, pathetic eyes a little more brilliant than 
they were wont to be. French was trembling like an 
aspen leaf, and looked very mournful and unhappy. 
The fire-eaters faced each other, and were surrounded 
with an eager and sniggering crowd. "Now then, 
you fellows," roared somebody, "buck up, and begin 
the slauofhterinof. You are wastinor valuable time. 
We've got the sweepers ready to gather up the pieces 
and clear the mess away." 

" I say, French, did you write that slating notice of 
my book?" began Tom Hood sweetly and mildly. 

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" No, old chap; I didn't, " replied French, no less 
mildly. 

"Oh, I thought you did," remarked Tom. "Well, 
come and join me in a bottle of champagne." 

The invitation was readily accepted, and thus the 
expected deadly encounter ended happily, and there 
was much chaff. It was all very comical ; but there 
was an undernote of sadness running through the 
farce, for both men were nearing the end of their 
earthly pilgrimage. French died a few months later, 
and it was not long before Tom Hood followed him 
into the shadows. Poor Tom ! A day or two before 
his death I sat by his bedside in his pretty little room 
facing Peckham Rye, and incidently asked him what 
was really the nature of his complaint. With a 
sweet smile on his sunken face, and in a voice that 
would not rise above a whisper, he replied : 

" The doctor tells me it's something the matter with 
the colon, so, of course, there will be a co(m)ma and 
then a full stop." 

A few hours later he had passed into an uncon- 
scious state, and the following day Tom Hood's brief 
life came to an end. He was laid to rest in Nunhead 
Cemetery. 

Hood was born at Wanstead in Essex in 1835, 
and received his education at University College 
School and Louth Grammar School ; in 1853 he was 
entered as a commoner at Pembroke College, Oxford, 
where he passed all the examinations for the degree, 
but for some reason or other he never took his B.A. 
He wrote many books, including several for children. 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

He founded and conducted Tom Hoods Comic 
Annual, to which I was a contributor in its later 
years. He was the editor of Fun, and edited many 
editions of his famous father's works. To know 
Tom Hood was to love him. His nature was that of 
a sweet and lovable child. He had a passion for 
flowers, and was never without a little bouquet in 
his button-hole. Another friend of mine in those 
memorable years was Mr (afterwards Sir) Benjamin 
Ward Richardson, a clever and original man, with 
great personality. He was the discoverer of the ether 
spray application for the local abolition of pain in 
operation, and, I believe, introduced the anaesthetic 
known as methylene bichloride. He strongly 
advocated the humane slaughtering of animals 
intended for food by means of electricity, and also 
discovered a process for making silk without the aid 
of the silkworm, and experimentally he produced a 
square yard of material, which to all intents and 
purposes was silk. He then went to Liverpool, he 
told me, to lecture on his discovery, and with justifi- 
able pride exhibited his piece of silk, or whatever it 
was ; but one of his audience, a north country silk 
trader, bluntly called him a fool for his pains, and 
advised him to keep his secret to himself if it was 
worth anything at all, for if he could produce silk to 
sell cheaply he could reap an enormous fortune, and 
enrich himself and his family. Richardson took the 
hint, but for some reason or other did not pursue 
his researches into the artificial production of silk 
any further. I think he found it was too costly. 

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Mr Richardson was not only a deep thinker, but a 
brilliant conversationalist, with a frank, open dis- 
position and a gentle, kindly nature. Although a 
popular physician, he detested conventionalism, and 
after his consulting hours loved to be " At home " in 
his rooms in Manchester Square to intellectual 
Bohemians who cared to drop in for half-an-hour's 
chat. Those who had the privilege of entree to 
these informal gatherings were sure of meeting the 
leading lights of literature, art, and science. Among 
the many people whose acquaintance I made in 
Richardson's rooms was old George Cruikshank, the 
celebrated artist and caricaturist, and a little incident 
in which he figured is worth recording. I called one 
afternoon when it chanced that the only other guest 
was Cruikshank. I happened incidentally to remark 
that I wasn't very well, when Cruikshank, in his 
genial manner, exclaimed: "What, not well! A 
powerful young fellow like you ought to be ashamed 
of yourself to talk of being unwell. Here, let me see 
you do this." He sprang up, took the tongs and 
poker from the fireplace, crossed them on the floor 
like swords, and then whistling his own air, danced 
a Highland sword dance with great agility and 
accuracy, keeping it up for at least a quarter of an 
hour. As he threw himself into a chair, somewhat 
exhausted by his efforts, he said : " Now then, when 
I'm dead you can say you saw old Cruikshank when 
he was over eighty years of age dance the Sword 
Dance in Dr Richardson's room." 

For a man of his years it was certainly a marvellous 

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performance. He used to attribute his vigour and 
energy to his abstention from alcohol in any shape 
or form. As is well known, Cruikshank carried his 
teetotal principles to almost extreme lengths, and he 
endeavoured to enforce them by his "illustrations," 
such as "The Bottle," "The Gin Trap," etc., but it 
is not so well known that at one period of his career 
he had been a pretty free drinker. A story was 
current, and I have reason to believe it was based 
on fact, that he had been converted to temperance 
in rather a forcible manner. The man who was 
destined to imperishably carve his name on Fame's 
Roll had been with some boon companions some- 
where, and entered a tavern near the British Museum 
late one afternoon. It chanced that a soldier in 
uniform was standing at the bar, accompanied by a 
young woman. Cruikshank addressed some offensive 
remarks to the young woman or the soldier himself ; 
anyway, the soldier resented it, and promptly knocked 
the artist down with a tremendous blow that fractured 
his nose. Saddened, sobered, and subdued, Cruik- 
shank arose, apologised to the soldier, and suffering 
from a sense of shame that almost drove him mad, 
he wended his way home, registering a mental vow 
that never again would he allow a drop of strong 
drink to pass his lips. How rigidly the vow was 
kept the world knows. Cruikshank had a wonderful 
sense of humour and a quaint way of expressing 
himself. He would keep a room full of company in 
roars of laughter by funny stories, of which he seemed 
to possess an inexhaustible fund ; while in his ability 

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as a caricaturist he was unique. Certainly he had no 
rival in his day in his own particular line. For many 
years he lived in the Hampstead Road, where I often 
visited him ; and there he died in 1878, aged about 
eighty-six. George Cruikshank represented a School 
of Art which no longer exists, or at anyrate it has 
undergone such changes that Cruikshank's style is now 
considered obsolete and old-fashioned. But in his 
day and generation he was an influence that was not 
without its effects on the cause he espoused with so 
much warmth and energy. 

After carrying on my paper for nearly four years I 
stopped its publication, and soon afterwards accepted 
an engagement from the late James Henderson in The 
Weekly Budget office. I sub-edited The Mirror, a 
high-class weekly journal, under the editorship of 
William Sawyer, who wrote much creditable verse. 
I also contributed to The Weekly Budget, then circulat- 
ing about half-a-million a week, and The Young Folks 
Budget, edited by a Miss Holland, a lady of marked 
ability. Notwithstanding my work in connection 
with these publications, I took charge for a time of 
the huge despatch department in connection with the 
establishment. Mr Henderson, who had risen from 
a humble position, had built up a magnificent busi- 
ness, and managed to secure the services of some 
capable men, including Tom Hood (the younger); 
Crawford Wilson, poet and novelist ; Charles Gibbon, 
the novelist ; John Proctor, the cartoonist ; Henry 
Lee, a very able writer, and others who, if now 
forgotten, were prominent enough at that period. 

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When The Mirror had run into a third volume Mr 
Henderson quite suddenly stopped it, not because it 
was not paying, but because it was not paying enough. 
Moreover, he had conceived the scheme of Funny 
Folks, which was immediately issued ; but with the 
stoppage of The Mirror I resigned my position, and 
soon afterwards joined the staff of the new daily Con- 
servative paper The Hour, under Captain H amber's 
editorship. I also helped my friend, the late Thomas 
Wilson Reid, for many years manager of The Sports- 
man, to edit The London Scottish Journal, which he 
had just started when The Sports^nan, which had been 
the property of Mr James Smith, passed into the 
possession of Mr Ashley. I also managed to turn 
out a considerable quantity of copy every week to 
keep my serialising syndicate going. I was certainly 
leading a very strenuous life, and my duties in con- 
nection with The Hour took me abroad a pfood deal. 
Perhaps the most important work I did for the paper 
was a series of articles which exposed the scandal of 
the " London Dead Houses." In some parishes the 
only place for a post ntorte7n was a railway arch, and 
bodies taken out of the Thames were often placed in 
an open cart, and dragged half across London, before 
they could be temporarily deposited for the purpose 
of examination and inquest. This state of matters 
had long been a crying evil, and though the duties 
involved me in some gruesome work, and I often had 
to witness revolting sights, I entered on the task 
with zeal, and had the satisfaction of subsequently 
witnessing the beginning of the reform which made it 



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compulsory that every parish should have proper 
mortuary chambers, with all the necessary sanitary 
and other arrang-ements for the medical examinations 
of the bodies which were the subjects of inquests. 

My Hour experiences also embraced attendance at 
the second inquest held on the body of Mr Bravo, 
which was exhumed after being in its grave in the 
Norwood Cemetery for three months. The " Bravo 
Case " was one of the most remarkable sensations of 
the day, and aroused interest from John O'Groats to 
Land's End. As more than a generation has passed 
since this weird tragedy sent a thrill through the land, 
and most of those who figured in it have gone into 
the night, it may not be without interest if I recall 
some of the leading incidents of the story of love and 
hate, intrigue and deception, sordidness and crime, 
which were unfolded in a Coroner's Court in the burn- 
ing days of July and August 1876. It was a thrilling 
romance of real life that put fiction completely in the 
shade ; but I have always maintained there is no such 
thingr as fiction. 

Mr Charles Delauney Turner Bravo, son of a West 
India merchant, was a barrister in the Temple, and 
under thirty years of age, when he met a charming 
young widow, a Mrs Florence Ricardo, who had been 
the wife of a Captain Ricardo, a dipsomaniac. She 
was a Miss Campbell before her marriage, and when 
she married she was very young and very pretty. 
Ricardo had been a captain in the Grenadier Guards, 
and was a man of means ; his mother was Lady 
Catherine Ricardo, and his father a well - known 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

politician ; the bride therefore seemed fortunate, and 
was congratulated on having made such an excellent 
match. The marriage took place in 1864, when 
Florence was about eighteen years of age. For 
some time they were happy enough, until the husband 
besfan to drink, and suffered from attacks of delirium 
tremens. About 1870, after one of these attacks, Mr 
and Mrs Ricardo went to Malvern to an establishment 
kept by a Dr Gully, who had known the Campbell 
family for many years, and there is no doubt Gully 
took advantage of Mrs Ricardo's strained relations 
with her husband to ingratiate himself in her favour, 
and there is also no doubt a liaison was commenced 
that was destined to lead to disastrous results. In 
1 87 1 Florence had separated herself from her husband, 
and in the course of that year Ricardo died in delirium 
tremens at Cologne. 

For the next three years or so Mrs Ricardo was 
estranged from her family owing to her connection 
with Dr Gully. She had gone to live at Balham, and 
ultimately took the lease of a quaint old house 
known as the Priory, beautifully situated on the edge 
of Streatham Common. Mrs Ricardo having plenty 
of money, furnished the place in an expensive and 
luxurious way. Here Dr Gully, who was an old 
man, visited her. At this period she, too, became a 
dipsomaniac ; and a mysterious person, a Mrs Cox, 
had appeared upon the scene as a companion to the 
young widow, over whom she seemed to acquire 
great influence. When Mrs Ricardo and Mrs Cox 
began their connection it is difficult to say, but the 

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two had travelled about a good deal with Dr Gully 
not only in England, but on the Continent. It was 
after the widow went to the Priory that she met 
Bravo. She and Mrs Cox, who was a woman well 
advanced in years, and had several children, went to 
Brighton, where Bravo was also staying. Mrs Cox 
had lived in Jamaica, the home of Bravo senior, and 
Cox had been acquainted with him in that island. 
She was the means of introducing Mr Charles Bravo 
and Mrs Ricardo at Brighton, where the intimacy 
sprang up. This would be in the autumn of 1875. 
Mrs Ricardo, Mrs Cox, and Dr Gully in the course of 
that year had made a prolonged tour on the Continent. 
On coming back the two women went to Eastbourne, 
and thence to Brighton, where Bravo and Mrs Ricardo 
seem to have fallen in love with each other. It is 
unnecessary to dwell upon the details of their court- 
ship. Bravo visited her at the Priory, and in 
December of that year they were married. Almost 
from the first, as was inevitable, unpleasantness arose. 
Bravo seems to have objected to Mrs Cox, whose 
influence over Mrs Bravo was very great. Such an 
ill - assorted match could not fail to end in misery. 
Mrs Bravo's life had been wrecked and spoilt. She 
had formed an intimacy with Gully, a man almost 
old enough to be her grandfather ; she had fallen 
under the influence of Mrs Cox, a married woman 
with children ; and Mrs Cox no doubt found her- 
self in a snug position, and was averse to being 
reduced to the rank of a mere dependant. Another 
reason why the marriage was likely to prove an 

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unhappy one was that Mrs Bravo had given way to 
drink. 

A period of about five months passed, and matters 
grew worse at the Priory. Then came a fatal day, 
the 1 8th of April 1876. Bravo dined with his wife 
and Mrs Cox at the Priory, and was waited on by the 
butler. Bravo partook of burgundy with his dinner, 
and soon after the meal was over, and the things had 
been cleared away, Charles Bravo was seized with 
sudden and mysterious illness, a pronounced symptom 
of which was violent vomiting. The services of a 
local practitioner were secured, who at once recog- 
nised the seriousness of the illness, and suggested 
that Sir William Gull should be summoned. This 
was done, and the eminent physician came to the con- 
clusion that Bravo was doomed, and that he was 
suffering from the effects of poison, though what the 
poison was could not then be determined. 

On the 2 1 St of April Charles Bravo, a young and 
active man, with excellent prospects, who had only 
been married about five months, lay dead in the 
Priory. It was a painful and mysterious tragedy, and 
as poison had undoubtedly been the cause of death, 
an inquest was necessary. The verdict at the inquest 
was an open one, and Charles Delauney Turner 
Bravo was buried in a private grave in Norwood 
Cemetery. The verdict satisfied no one. The un- 
happy man had succumbed to that terrible poison 
tartar emetic. There was not a tittle of evidence 
tending to prove that he might have swallowed 
the fatal drug accidentally, but there was every 

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reason for believing that the tartar emetic was in the 
burgundy he drank with his dinner on that fatal i8th 
of April. It was therefore a question whether it 
was administered to him with criminal intent, or 
whether he had [)urposely taken it with a view to 
destroying his own life. 

On the 26th of June 1876 a Government order was 
issued that the body should be exhumed, and a fresh 
inquest held. The order was made in deference to 
popular clamour, and the Government were also 
influenced perhaps, by certain ominous rumours of 
foul play. It would be almost impossible to ex- 
aggerate the sensation this order caused. The 
position of the parties concerned, and the remarkable 
circumstances of the case, gave it an importance in 
the {)ublic estimation that otherwise it would not 
have had. Of course, all the papers were on the 
qui Vive for good "co[)y," and my editor. Captain 
Hamber of The Hour, asked me to devote special at- 
tention to the case, and was particularly anxious 
that I should be present at the exhumation. I 
found, however, that the most stringent regulations 
had been made, and the officials of the cemetery 
were instructed that under no pretence whatever was 
any representative of the Press to be admitted. I 
tried various little subterfuges to get the blind side of 
the Home Office, but failed. I was determined, how- 
ever, to see that exhumation and describe it ; and it 
had been a habit with me throughout my life to ac- 
com[)lish what I had resolved upon, if accomplish- 
ment was possible. The labour of opening the grave 

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and disinterring the body, which had then been under- 
ground for nearly three months, was to commence 
soon after midnight. It was summer-time, and 
between twelve and one on that memorable morning 
a number of men carrying lanterns, pickaxes, mat- 
tocks, and crowbars were admitted cautiously at the 
main entrance of the cemetery. One of the men was 
a slouching, raggedly dressed fellow. His arms 
were bare, and he wore a leather strap round his left 
wrist. He was smoking a short clay pipe, and 
carried his tools as if to the manner born. I was that 
man, and the following extract from my descriptive 
article, which appeared in the issue of The Hour for 
13th July 1876, will testify that I was successful in 
my efforts to witness the exhumation. How I 
managed it need not be revealed. 



*tj 



Extract from The Hour newspaper of 13th July 
1876 : 

"The grave where the deceased man's body has 
for eleven weeks rested, is situated in a very pretty 
part of the cemetery, beneath the shadow of some 
trees, and on rising ground which commands a wide 
sweep of country. The grave is a brick one, ten feet 
deep, and the clayey earth having caked hard down, 
pick and shovel had to be applied vigorously before it 
could be removed. As soon as the coffin, which was 
scarcely soiled, was reached, it was raised to the 
surface, and placed in a tent by the graveside, where 
the undertakers were ready to open it. The outer 

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covering was unscrewed, and that done the leaden 
case was cut away about one-third of its length. 
Then a large square was marked on the lid of the 
inner shell, and several holes drilled to admit 
a fine saw. As the wood was over an inch in 
thickness, the task of cutting out the square was one 
of considerable difficulty. At least an hour was con- 
sumed, as, for obvious reasons, the saw had to be 
worked very gently and deliberately. When the 
operation was completed and the square block 
removed, a painful sight met the gaze of those 
whose duty compelled them to be present. During 
lifetime Mr Bravo had been noted for being, what is 
generally termed, a handsome man. His features 
indicated refinement and intelligence ; but when they 
were exposed to the light of the sun again yesterday, 
a brown mummified, almost unrecognisable mass, was 
all there was to be seen. The rapid hand of decay 
had wiped the beauty of the face away, and left in its 
place a something that is indescribable, and yet a 
something that, having no voice, was nevertheless an 
eloquent sermon on the brief span of our mortal life, 
and the terrible lot that awaits the human form divine 
when death claims it. 

" It was altogether a strange scene, with a touch of 
weirdness about it. A strong breeze was blowing, 
and the leaves of the trees seemed to keep up a 
melancholy and monotonous dirge. The fire in a 
plumber's brazier smoked and burned near the tent, 
and various tools necessary for the ghastly work were 
scattered about, while the grave, whitewashed and 

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cleaned, yawned a few feet awav. I'^lowers were 
there too, in prolusion, antl tall while marble eolumns 
were in striking- eontrast to the brioht oreen orass. 
High overheail, from an almost cloudless sky, the sun 
shone clear and warm, and birds filled the air with 
song. A singular and suggestive incident was the 
inadvertent placing by one of the workmen of a large 
jar o\' carbolic acid near the coffin. The jar bore a 
label, and printed on it in bold red letters was the 
word • Poison.' 

" That HraNo died bv poison is a fict beyond all 
doubt. Init whether that piMson was administered by 
his own or some other hand, is the apparently inscrut- 
able mystery thai the legal acumen which will be 
brought to bear on the case will endeavour to solve. 
It is more than possible, however, that the case may 
go down to posterity for all time as a riddle unsolved." 

While the newlv empanelled jurv. who had been 
brought down bv special train, were viewing the 
decayed remains, a little incident occurred which had 
in it a touch o( humour. I noticed that from behind 
an uprighi lombslone some distance away a head, 
covered with a mass of tangled reddish hair, kept 
bobbing up and down like a jack-in-the-box. Curious 
to know what this meant, I strolled slowly towards 
the spot. Squatted down behind the stone was a 
shabby, dissipated, black-eyed-looking individual with 
a nose like a boiled beetroot. Me was engaged in 
making; a sketch of the scene. 

I2S 



Pages from an Adventurous Lifb 

"Hull()!" I (exclaimed, scarcely able lo suppress a 
lau^h, " what ar(- you doln^ here?" 

" Can't you see, guvnor," he answcrefl, " I'm making 
a sketch. Now don't ^ive a bloke away." 

" liut how did you get in here? " 

" lieen here since yesterday afternoon. 1 lid myself 
when it was time: tf) close the gates, and all I've had 
to eat and drink is a b(Htle of rum and a biscuit. 
Now df>n't give us away." 

" I've no intention of giving you away," I replied ; 
" but tell me, what journal do you represent?" 

" The Police News, guvnor. The Police News. Now 
look here, stand with the crowd and I'll put you in the 
picture, and your missus and the kids will be proud 
of you." 

As I had no desire tf> be immortalised through the 
medium of The Police News, I declined to stand with 
the crf>wd, but I could not resist congratulating the 
Hardolphian artist on his enterprise. I felt as if a 
little of the lustre f;f my own achievement had been 
taken away by this distinguished representative of the 
IVess, who had spent the whole night and part of a 
day among the tombs, in the interest of the artistic 
journal he represented so ably, and had sustained his 
flagging energies with such humble fare as a biscuit 
and a bottle of rum. 

The second incjuest was opened at the liedford 
Hotel, Balham, not far from the " Priory" which was 
the scene of the tragedy. There was a brilliant array 
of legal gentlemen, including Mr (now Sir) George 
Lewis, the Attorney-General, Mr Gorst, Q.C., Mr 
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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

Poland for the Treasury, Sir Henry James, Q.C., 
Mr Biron, Mr Murphy, O.C., Mr Bray, Mr Serjeant 
Parry, Mr Archibald Smith, and others. 

The inquiry lasted about three weeks. I attended 
every day from the opening of the Court to its 
close, and wrote on an average two columns of de- 
scriptive matter for my paper every evening. The 
verdict of the jury was : " Murder against some person 
or persons unknown." 

That Charles Delauney Turner Bravo was cruelly 
murdered no one who heard the evidence, and the 
examination of the chief actors in the grim drama, 
could for a moment doubt. But as I predicted was 
likely to be the case, the riddle remains unsolved to 
the present time. Those whose duty it was to 
inquire into the mystery were well aware around 
whom suspicion centred, but no chain of legal 
evidence could be forged that would secure conviction. 
A generation has passed, and Mrs Bravo, Mrs Cox, 
Dr Gully, Bravo's father, and many of die relatives 
of both parties, who gave evidence, have passed, 
taking their secrets with them, and the murderer of 
Mr Bravo has escaped earthly justice. 

My work on Ike Hour was of a very varied 
character, and in the interests of the paper I made 
several journeys to Prance and other parts of the 
Continent. I s|>ent some time in the island of St 
Michael, one of the Azores, making meteorological 
observations and studying its climate, and subse- 
quently embodied my experiences in a series of 
articles. I also collected a great deal of the folk- 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

lore of the island, and my good friend, the late 
Richard Gowing, used several of the quaint and 
weird stories I had got together in The Gc7itlentans 
Magazine, which he was then editing. But there is 
another episode of that period which I fancy is 
sufficiently interesting to be given in detail. 

The Prince of Wales, now His Most Gracious 
Majesty Edward VII., was returning from his exten- 
sive tour through India. He was voyaging towards 
Portsmouth in the magnificent old troopship Serapis. 

For some time great preparations had been in 
progress at Portsmouth for his reception. I received 
instructions from Captain Hamber a day or two 
before the expected arrival to proceed to Portsmouth, 
and use every possible means to get on board the 
Serapis, so as to witness and describe the meeting 
between the Prince and the Princess. The Princess 
was to go out in the Royal Yacht, and welcome her 
husband home somewhere off the Needles. Another 
yacht, the Fire Queen, at the service of the Admiral 
who had charge of all the dock arrangements — 
Admiral Elliott — was also to be ready at the wharf of 
the principal dockyard to convey a very distinguished 
party of guests from London who had been invited 
by the Prince to lunch with him on board the Serapis. 
These guests were to be brought from London by 
special train, and immediately they had embarked 
the Fire Queen was to steam down to the Needles. 
The Press arrangements included the erection of a 
large stand on the wharf where the Prince and 
Princess would land, and each newspaper representa- 

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Pacres from an Adventurous Life 

o 
tiv^e was provided with special permits for entrance 
into the dock and a ticket for the stand. On my 
arrival in the town I learnt that no Pressmen would 
be allowed to board the Serapis. Remembering my 
instructions, I was determined to try and succeed 
where others might fail. Seldom had so many Press 
representatives been gathered at Portsmouth as were 
brought together on this occasion. It was a great 
event. The heir to the throne of the most magnifi- 
cent Empire the world has ever known was returning 
to his country and his family after far wanderings 
through the glorious land of India, and history was 
being made. The chief rendezvous for the newspaper 
men was at the " Kepple's Head," and there I kept 
my ears open to catch such gossip as might be current. 
There was a good deal of grumbling about the 
restrictions imposed, and I gathered that no one was 
likely to get to the Serapis unless he had received a 
special invitation from the Prince. Conspicuous by 
his absence was the redoubtable Archibald Forbes, 
the special correspondent of The Daily News, and 
speculation was rife as to why he did not turn up. 
Knowing Forbes, I was convinced that he had a 
card up his sleeve, and I became more and more 
determined to trump it if I could. By a good deal 
of diplomatic finesse, aided by a letter of introduction 
to a person high in authority, I seemed in a fair way 
to accomplish my desire. In the course of the after- 
noon of the day preceding that on which the vessel 
was timed to arrive, I received a mysterious message 
requesting me to repair to a certain place at a certain 

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time. Of course, I went, and met " My friend at 
Court." I was furnished with a special pass which 
was potent enough to gain me admission into the 
dockyard at midnight. In addition, I had a letter of 
introduction to the Captain of the Fire Queen — Staff 
Commander Pounds, if I remember rightly — which 
was to lie all night at the wharf with her steam up, 
ready to start for sea in the morning as soon as the 
special train arrived with the guests of the Prince. 

I went back to the inn with a feeling of elation, and 
spent the evening with my colleagues. Among them 
was the late Charles Williams, then representing The 
Standard. He was much exercised in his mind about 
his great rival Forbes, and incidentally he expressed 
a fear that P orbes would obtain access to the Serapis ; 
whereupon stupidly, though in a half joking way, I said : 
" Well, if Forbes is there, I won't be far behind him." 
The result of this remark was I had to stand a good 
deal of chaff couched in language which, if not polite, 
was at least expressive. However, I consoled myself 
with the reflection that probably before many hours 
had passed the laugh would be on my side ; and I have 
always held that those who laugh last laugh longest. 

A little before midnight I slipped out, and made my 
way to the docks, where my magic open sesame ob- 
tained for me speedy entrance, and with an admonition 
to be careful how I went ringing in my ears, I made 
my way to where the Fire Queen was berthed. The 
little journey was not without risk, for the night was 
very dark, the dock was ill lighted, and my path was 
beset with ropes, lumber, and impediments usually 

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found in a large dockyard. My seafaring life, how- 
ever, had familiarised me with such things, and I 
reached the Fire Queens berth whole and sound, with 
the exception of a bruised shin caused by my having 
in a particularly dark spot, fouled the fluke of an old 
anchor lying on the wharf. On gaining the gangway 
of the yacht, I was challenged by the sentry, but my 
magic pass, and a statement that I had a letter to 
deliver to the Captain, procured me access to the 
deck, where I was told to wait. My letter was passed 
on, and in a few minutes I was conducted to the 
commander's cabin, where a bluff, handsome gentleman 
in full uniform received me with a handshake which 
left me in no doubt as to the warmth of my welcome. 
It was the middle watch, but my genial host informed 
me that he had no intention of retiring, and unless 
I was fatio-ued and desired to rest, he would be olad 
of my company. In those days I was a stranger to 
fatigue, and as it was not the first time I had kept a 
middle watch, we fell to discussing the affairs of the 
nation as well as a bottle of excellent wine, and sur- 
rounded ourselves with a halo of fragrant smoke. 
The night passed pleasantly, the dawn came — a 
blustery, squally dawn, though with promise of a fine 
day. But it was after ten o'clock before the " special " 
train from London steamed into the docks. A large 
number of notabilities walked along the crimson 
carpet and came on board ; the last of them all were 
old Sir John Bennett and Archibald Forbes. The 
latter greeted me with an exclamation: "What 

the are you doing here ? " " On the same lay as 

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yourself, my friend," I replied. It was only too 
evident that my presence seriously disconcerted Mr 
Forbes, and our relations from that moment were 
strained. As soon as ever the guests were all aboard, 
the Fire Queen steamed away. A magnificent break- 
fast had been prepared, and when all the ladies and 
gentlemen had gone down to the saloon I was asked 
by the Captain to intimate to Forbes that a seat was 
reserved for him. He declined, however, to avail 
himself of it. It was my distinguished privilege to 
sit next to Sir Bartle Frere, whom I knew to be a 
great authority on South African matters. I was 
greatly charmed with him, and I venture to suppose 
that he regarded me with some small interest. Any- 
way, he was interested in the journal I represented, 
and we talked a good deal about things in general. 
Subsequently, as we strolled up and down the deck 
enjoying a cigar, I took the liberty of soliciting his 
opinion about South African affairs, which were then 
very much to the fore. It is not my intention to 
record all that passed between us, but a prophecy of 
his I have never forgotten, and I have lived to see it 
verified. " In less than a quarter of a century," he 
said thoughtfully, " there will be a great war between 
this country and the Dutch population of South 
Africa that will tax the whole resources of the 
Empire." Then after a long pause, during which he 
seemed to have reflected deeply, he said thought- 
fully, and rather as if speaking to himself: "Yes, 
African affairs will occupy the attention of the country 
for many years to come, and unless England is to lose 

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her hold on Africa, the very highest quahties of states- 
manship must be brought to bear." 

Those words were uttered on the 12th of May 
1876. How prophetic they were the world now 
knows, but the highest qualities oi statesmanship are, 
unhappily, lacking. The statesmanship that plunged 
us into war with the American farmers, the states- 
manship that has tlouted Canada and wounded the 
pride of Australia, seems to be drifting us into an 
embroglio with regarci to Africa for which this country 
will have to pay a very heavy penalty in the long run. 
It is the opinion of everyone who knows Africa, and 
the conviction of those who reside in the country, 
and surely they are entitled to a hearing. 

To return to my story. The previous evening, 
about nine o'clock, the Princess of Wales and the 
Royal family had arrived, being accompanied by the 
Duke of Sutherland, General Knollys, Colonel Tees- 
dale, and suite. They were accommodated for the 
night on board the Enc/ia>!trcss, which steamed away 
from the wharf a little in advance of us. When 
we reached the Needles the big ship with her white 
hull was seen slowly advancing. Presently she 
stopped, and the Enchant?rss went alongside ; her 
distinguished passengers were transhipped, and we 
on the Fire Queen saw through our glasses the Royal 
wife hurry up to the Prince on the quarter-deck, and 
embrace him with every manifestation of unbounded 
delight and affection ; then the children, fortrettino- 
their Royal dignity for the moment, followed their 
mother's example. It was a human and touching 

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scene. Subsequently when I was describing it to 
a dear old lady, a relative of mine, she exclaimed : 

" La ! how like common folk ! " 

When the Enchantress had cleared away a signal 
was hoisted for us to go alongside. A strong wind 
was blowing, and the sea was very choppy. The 
Fire Queen was as a minnow compared with a triton 
as she got into the lee of the great ship. When we 
were near enough a gangway was hastily passed from 
the yacht to the lower ladder of the Serapis. A row 
of sailors lined each side of the gangway, and the 
ladies and gentlemen hurried across. When the last 
of them had gone Archibald Forbes followed, and I 
was in his wake. We were confronted by the urbane 
and courteous General Probyn, who inquired if we 
had tickets of invitation. The answer, of course, was 
in the negative. "Then I regret, gentlemen," said 
the General, " I cannot admit you. My orders are 
very stringent." 

" But I am Archibald Forbes of The Daily News," 
exclaimed my colleague excitedly, "and I was with 
the Prince in India." 

" Nevertheless, I cannot disobey my orders," re- 
marked the General, with a pleasant smile. 

Forbes was furious, but I, being a humbler light, felt 
amused, and enjoyed the humour of the situation. As 
the little vessel was dancing about, and could only 
be kept in position with the greatest difficulty, her 
Captain sang out : 

" Now, gentlemen, if you please, if you are coming 
back, come quickly." 

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Back we had to or<^, and orders were oiven for the 
yacht to follow up in the wake of the Serapis. The 
Fire Queen was hardly bior enoiioh to hold Forbes 
as we steamed towards rortsniomh Harbour. My 
host, the Captain, had promised me that he would 
lower a boat as soon as we got into the harbour, 
and put us on shore as sharp as he could, so that 
we should be in time to see the landing, and witness 
the ceremony of reception by the Mayor, Mr Pink, 
and the members of the Corporation. But man pro- 
poses, and God disposes ! When the harbour was 
reached, and the huge Scrapis was describing a circle 
so as to come broadside on to the wharf, we, in trying 
to get out of her way, ran foul of the Jacob's boom 
of the old Duke of Wellington with disastrous effects 
to ourselves. Our fore topmast was snapped short 
oft, and came down with a run. Instantly all hands 
were piped to clear away the wreck, and the lowering 
of a boat for us was out of the question. Forbes 
danced, and gave vent to his feelings in unprintable 
language. A man-of-war's gig in charge of a middy 
was within hail. He was asked if he would put us 
on shore. He replied that it was more than his 
commission was worth. A fisherman was prowling 
by on the lookout for flotsam. To him I appealed. 

" I shall want a couple of quid, guv'nor." he replied. 

" Right," I replied, for moments were precious. 

Forbes and I jumpetl in. and we were rowed to 
the wharf. All alono- the edtre of the wharf was a 
line of policemen. "Go away, go away," someone 
in authority shouted. Our boatman, however, pulled 

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more vigorously. A ropr; ladder was han^in^ down. I 
.sprang on to il. A stalwart bohhy tried to [jush me 
back into the bfjat. " Do you want to Le tried and 
hung for murder?" I asked. " Let me come up, and 
I'll show you my Press ticket." Whereupon he ^raljbed 
me by the collar, and jerked me on to the wharf as a 
fisherman jerks a catch. My shirt collar was torn from 
its fastenings, my waistcoat ripped up, and a peaked cap 
I was wearing fell into the water. My appearance may 
be imagined. The first Pressman I caught sight of 
was Charles Williams. With eyes agog, he exclaimed : 

" Where — on — earth — have you come — from ?" 

" Sera/>ts," I answered shortly. 

"You " 

The rest of the sentence was drowned in a mighty 
cheer as the Prince and Princess showe-d themselves 
over the bulwarks of the big ship, which was then 
being moored. As soon as the landing and reception 
were over I raced for the telegraph office, and put 
my copy on the wires. 

A few days later the incident I have here dealt with 
was the subject of comment in 7Ae Aberdeen Free 
Press. Who was responsible for giving it publicity I 
know not, but in the issue of The London Scottish 
Journal for 20th May 1876 the following paragraph 
appeared. I believe it was written by the editor. 

THE PRINCE AND THE PRESS 

The London correspondent of The Aberdeen 
Free Press is cruelly kind in taking the part of 

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two newspaper "specials," as the following will 
prove : — 

"After all, the Prince need not have been so hard 
on the Press. What would the United Kingdom 
have known, what would it have cared, about the 
splendid receptions of the Prince in India and else- 
where had it not been for the publicity given to the 
proceedings by the Press ? " 

But to my tale of hardship. "Two enterprising 
special correspondents — Mr Archibald Forbes of The 
Daily Neivs and Mr J. E. Muddock of The Hour 
— deemed it right in the due performance of their 
professional duties to go and meet the Prince of 
Wales. On the morning of Thursday last, like most 
other Pressmen, they went about the preliminaries 
quietly and separately, and, much to their mutual sur- 
prise, they met on board the Fire Queen at Ports- 
mouth, where there were lords, dukes, and admirals, 
who had been invited to meet the Prince on board the 
Serapis. Thus far all was well, and one can easily 
fancy that, at the splendid breakfast provided in the 
saloon as the vessel steamed through the Solent, the 
Press gentlemen were as much gentlemen as any of 
the lords, dukes, and admirals on board. But there 
had been an eye that marked their coming, and it 
looked darker when the two specials got to the main- 
deck of the Serapis. ' The orders are strict,' said 
Major-General Probyn : ' everyone coming on board 
must have an invitation from the Prince,' and the two 
specials were under the painful necessity of leaving 
the fashionably crowded deck of the Serapis, retracing 

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their steps down the long gangway, and ignobly re- 
boarding the Fire Queen. And this was not the 
worst of their dilemma. At Portsmouth the Fire 
Queen ran into the Duke of Wellington, and our two 
friends were under the necessity of hiring a boat to 
get on shore ; and when they did get into dock, they 
had a tough fight with the police before they were 
permitted to land. Such are the ups and downs of 
Press life. Someone will be inclined to say : ' Serve 
the Press right.' Yet under the circumstance there 
might, I fancy, have been a little more consideration 
shown for men who do so much and do it so 
well. 

" It is the old story — diamond cut diamond. In 
Edinburgh a dozen years ago so strong was the 
rivalry amongst newspapers there — the Scotsman, 
Couranty Mercury, and Review — that at a common 
railway board meeting at Aberdeen four Edinburgh 
reporters would turn up, all of them having come at 
different times, and some of them by different routes, 
while each of them appeared utterly astounded at the 
presence of the others. 

" Doubtless each of the two enterprising Pressmen 
referred to above believed that nobody but himself 
could possibly be so clever as to get on board the 
Fire Queen, and doubtless each spoiled the other's 
game. Still we think, with the Free Press cor- 
respondent, that when the specials did get on to 
the main-deck of the Serapis they might have been 
tolerated with a quiet ' you mustn't-do-this-again ' 
caution." 

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In closino- this chapter I may add that I remained 
with The Hour until it suddenly ceased to exist. As 
many misstatements have been published as to the 
causes which led to its stoppage, I hope I am not be- 
traying any secrets if at this time of day I venture to 
give the true reason, without mentioning names. A 
very large sum had been spent in organising and 
establishing the paper, and one of the founders had 
furnished no inconsiderable portion of the sum. 
Then there came a time when there was a financial 
crisis, but it was tided over, and ultimately a very well 
known and very wealthy gentleman agreed to find 
money to any extent subject to certain conditions 
being strictly observed. This gentleman, who was a 
man of high social position and unblemished honour, 
loyally carried out his part of the bargain until the 
founder alluded to above, ceased to respect the con- 
ditions imposed. The result was friction and un- 
pleasantness of a very pronounced kind, and at last, 
when there seemed no hope of reconciliation, the 
supplies were cut off, and the poor Hour ceased to 
exist, when there was every prospect of it becoming 
a pronounced success. The offices in Salisbury 
Square were abandoned, and temporary ofiices taken 
in the city, where the accounts were audited, and the 
gentleman I have mentioned ultimately paid every 
debt. 

Once again I found myself a free-lance. I made a 
tour on the Continent, and visited Portugal. I re- 
turned to London, edited a boy's paper published by 
Mr Gate the printer for a short period, and then 

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journeyed to Scotland to help my friend, Charles 
Farcjuharson Finlay, to organise the almost moribund 
Greenock Advertiser. But before dealing with my 
Scottish experiences it is necessary that I should hark 
back a little in point of time. 



143 



CHAPTER V 

The late Queen accepts a copy of my book — Recollections of T. P. 
O'Connor — Myself and Sala go to Chislehurst to the lying-in-state 
of the ex-emperor of the French — Amusing experience — A Sala 
supper — I visit the Savage Club for the first time — Make the 
acquaintance of Andrew Halliday, Henry J. Byron, Henry Lee, 
and others — The story of the founding of the renowned Club — 
Sudden death at the Club of George Grossmith — The Club enter- 
tains the Prince of Wales, who is elected a member — Pathetic end 
of Henry S. Leigh. 

I HAVE already mentioned that I had published a book 
through Tinsley Brothers, and another through Samuel 
Tinsley ; while a third, called " A Wingless Angel," 
dedicated to my friend, Dr Benjamin Ward Richardson, 
and in part suggested by him, was published by 
Virtue & Co. I have a particular reason for mention- 
ing this book, as it has a curious and funny history, 
which I shall presently deal with at some length, 
merely stating now that her Majesty Queen Victoria 
was pleased to accept a copy, and I was honoured by 
receipt of the following letter : — 

Buckingham Palace, August <,th, 1878. 

Sir, — Sir T. M. Biddulph is desired to acknowledge 
a book called "A Wingless Angel," which the Queen 
has been pleased to accept from Mr Muddock. 

Among my many acquaintances of those far-off days 

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was Mr T. P. O'Connor, at that time an impecunious 
journalist. We used frequently to rub shoulders, and 
occasionally to toast each other in a certain house, 
beloved of Pressmen, not a hundred miles from Old 
Temple Bar. He had written a " Life of Lord 
Beaconsfield " with a pen dipped in gall. But if I 
remember rightly, it failed to ' bring him much re- 
muneration. One day as I was passing along the 
Old Bailey he was coming out of his publisher's 
offices looking very glum and down in the mouth. 
Inquiring the cause of his depression, I learnt that 
he had been trying to get another little cheque on 
account, but had signally failed. Certainly life was 
not very rosy with him at that time. " I'm not going 
to remain like this. I'll do something," he exclaimed 
savagely. There was a stress of emphasis on that 
" I'll do something" which imparted a significance to 
it. My own impression of him at that time was that 
he was an Irish patriot, a dreamer of dreams, an 
idealist, clever but erratic, with not too much love for 
his adopted country. Certainly his Irish dislike of 
the Saxon was more than a little pronounced. But 
he was down on his luck, and much embittered ; and 
his political bias often displayed itself with a warmth 
of expression, that with riper experience, he has learnt 
to subdue. We came at last to the parting of the 
ways ; our paths ran in different directions, and I have 
not met him for many years ; but I have watched his 
rise with much interest, and confess that he has falsified 
the opinion I formed of him as a youngster in the early 
seventies. I certainly did not regard him then as a 

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Although I am not in accord with him 
politically, I greatly admire the energy and conspicu- 
ous abilities that have placed him in such a foremost 
position at the present day. 

One of the most brilliant of the Fleet Street 
Bohemians it was my privilege to know was the 
late George Augustus Sala — and he was a Bohemian : 
an intellectual giant with all the waywardness of 
genius, and not a few weaknesses which begot him 
enemies, but withal he was a lovable man. One 
could forgive much for the sake of his cleverness. 
His money-earning powers were astonishing, and yet 
he seemed to have no more knowledge of the value of 
money than a sucking babe. He had led an adven- 
turous and romantic life, and was one of the most 
entertaining raconteurs I have ever known. He has 
been the victim of many detractors ; envy, jealousy, 
and malice have prompted stories about him which 
have no foundation except in the shallow imaginations 
of the tellers. Conscious as he was of his power, he 
would not play second fiddle to any man, and was 
exceedingly intolerant of mediocrities. His faults 
were the faults that are almost always associated with 
a temperament such as he possessed, and so were his 
virtues. Not the least of these were staunchness and 
generosity to those he liked. He was a bad enemy, 
but a good friend, and many and many an act of kind- 
ness on his part has gone unrecorded, while some of 
his sins have been blazoned trumpet-tongued over the 
world. However, my object here is to relate two little 
characteristic stories, in each of which I played a part. 

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When the once Emperor of France, Napoleon III., 
was lying in state at Chislehurst, Sala and I journeyed 
down there together. I went for my own paper, he 
for The Daily Telegraph, We had dallied on the 
way, and did not reach Camden House until very late. 
It was in January 1873. The doors were then closed, 
and orders had been issued that there were to be no 
further admissions that day. Double rows of police- 
men were drawn up in front of the house, and in 
addition there was, I think, a French guard of honour. 
Not even G. A. S. was powerful enough to break 
through that cordon ; but he resolved to get in, so by 
a stratagem we made our way to the rear of the place, 
and into a stable-yard where an ostler was grooming 
a horse. After some little negotiation this man was 
induced to indicate a way of entry. It lay over a wall 
and into a garden, thence through a conservatory. 
The friendly ostler provided a stool from the stable to 
further assist us. By this means we were able to 
reach the top of the wall at a part where the branches 
of a tree overhungf. Thence we scrambled down, 
made our way to the conservatory, brazened it out with 
two Frenchmen who would have barred our passage, 
and gained a room where a number of official people 
were partaking of refreshments. Uninvited, we joined 
them, with an air of such superiority and authority that 
our right to be there was not even challenged then. 
In a little while I slipped away alone, and succeeded 
in reaching the Chapelle Ardente, where the body was 
lying amidst flowers and candles, with solemn soldiers 
standing mute like statues. On returning to the 

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refreshment place, I found my friend in somewhat 
heated argument with a French gentleman. 

"Come," he said, on seeing me, "we are evidently 
not appreciated here ; let us go." And he stalked 
majestically down the long corridor, I following, to 
the main entrance, where the guards threw open the 
doors for us, and bowed us out, presumably under the 
impression that we were high in authority. But our 
little adventure did not end there. When we reached 
the station there was an enormous crowd, but an 
official who knew Sala passed us on to the platform, 
where "a special" was drawn up ready to convey 
a number of notabilities back to town. Another 
official, thinking that as we had been allowed on 
the platform we were of the party, hurried us into a 
first-class apartment, where there happened to be 
two vacant seats — the only two, I believe, in the 
train — ^^and so we travelled back to town in comfort. 
But as I heard afterwards, we had occupied the seats 
reserved for a member of the then Cabinet and his 
son, who was furious when he found he had been left 
behind. 

My other story is of a little supper given by Sala 
on, I believe, his birthday ; anyway, it was in early 
winter. The party consisted of eight, including him- 
self. We supped at a house much frequented by Sala, 
where he was ever a welcome guest. Everything was 
excellent. There were delicacies in and out of season. 
The feast went off without a hitch until the dessert 
stage was reached. Sala was a lavish host, and could 
entertain with a princely hand. It was on the principle 

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of " Enjoy yourselves, my friends, and hang the ex- 
pense." But 

"The best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft 
agley." 

The arrival of the dessert led to a large order 
on the part of our host for a quantity of a cele- 
brated vintage port, brandy, liqueurs, cigars. A 
multi-millionaire could not have ordered more lavishly. 
Then a mystery happened. The waiter returned, and 
whispered into the ear of the giver of the feast. 

"Oh, that be hanged," exclaimed the giver irrit- 
ably. " Send old Jones here." 

Jones was the landlord, but that wasn't his name. 
Bowing and rubbing his hands, old Jones appeared. 
To him G. A. S. thundered out a protest against such 
scurvy treatment on the part of a mere hostel-keeper. 
Withholding supplies from such merry gentlemen and 
excellent Bohemians was little short of a crime. But 
mine host, though much embarrassed, with delicate 
courtesy, protested against the inordinate length to 
which the bill was reaching and the inordinate length 
of other bills as yet unsettled. He alluded sorrow- 
fully, almost tearfully, to a promise made that a little 
cheque should be handed to him before the banquet 
began, but being a mere detail, the promise had re- 
mained unfulfilled. How could one give one's mind 
to such a trifle on such a festive night ! Demand on 
the part of the host was met by stern refusal on the 
part of old Jones. Then the indignant George im- 
periously demanded that " Jimmy " should be ordered 
to attend his majesty immediately. Now Jimmy was 

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a hanger-on, with gouty toes and a bulbous nose, 
who Hved outside on the pavement year in and year 
out. His duties consisted in handing buckets of 
water to cab horses, running errands, and being at 
everyone's beck and call. Jimmy duly appeared. 
The hour was late, but he was instructed to hie him 
with all the speed a cab horse was capable of to a 
certain weekly paper office, and deliver a note, with 
which he was entrusted, to a certain person. In due 
time Jimmy reappeared, and made the alarming 
announcement that the office was closed. But Jimmy 
was sent off again in the cab to the certain person's 
house, which, unless I am mistaken, was either 
Hammersmith or Putney. What was written in the 
important document he bore I know not ; but I do 
know that the poor certain person, who was enjoying 
his beauty sleep, was roused out of his bed, was 
induced by what was stated in that precious note to 
write a cheque, and Jimmy returned in time to enable 
old Jones' heart to be softened by means of that 
autographed slip of paper, so that before the closing 
hour had struck the port wine was served, and our 
host's triumph was complete. 

Other times, other manners. That was in the good 
old Bohemian days. Now, as Mr Mantalini would 
say, we are too demmed respectable to do such a 
thing. The modern journalist quenches his thirst with 
lemonade and ginger beer. He smokes cigarettes, 
knows nothing of vintages, and repairs him to his virtu- 
ous couch before midnight — except on special occasions. 

To most people of the present generation Sala is 

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little more than a name, but for many years he was 
a powerful force in the world of journalism, and did 
work of a kind which in my opinion has rarely been 
equalled and never excelled. To say that it was 
brilliant is to give it no more than its due, and his 
range of subjects was little short of marvellous. He 
was not only a walking encyclopaedia, but one of the 
most methodical men I have ever known, while his 
memory was, as Dominie Sampson would have said, 
"Prodigious!" If he failed to attain the height to which 
his genius should have carried him, it was due to 
certain defects of temperament. He respected no 
one's feelings when he was aroused ; and often the 
vigour of his language gave offence, though none was 
intended. But when all is urg-ed against him that can 
beurged,the fact remains that George Augustus Henry 
Sala was a leading light in his time, a man of great 
intellect, a delightful companion, and a good friend. 
To him I would apply the lines of Colton, and say : 

" He that can enjoy the intimacy of the great, and on 
no occasion disgust them with familiarity or disgrace 
himself by servility, proves that he is as perfect a 
gentleman by nature as his companions are by rank." 

Sala was as incapable of servility as he was of 
displaying vulgar familiarity with those who by 
accident of birth or fortune ranked above him. A 
proper consciousness of his own powers kept him 
from being either a truckler or fawner. 

I offer these few brief remarks of a really remarkable 
man as the honest opinion of one who knew him, 
studied him, and liked him. It is a pity that his life 

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has never been written, for few men have had a more 
varied and excitino; career than fell to his lot. He 
was a brilliant linguist, and as a descriptive writer 
had no rival. He was in Paris during the Commune 
in 1870, and owing to some unguarded remark made 
in a public place he was arrested, and charged with 
being a Prussian spy. He was thrown into prison, 
subjected to the most horrible indignities, and would 
most certainly have been shot but for the vigorous 
action of our Ambassador, who rescued him in the 
nick of time. He was one of Charles Dickens' 
brilliant staff during the palmy days of Household 
Words. Subsequently he made a tour of the world, 
and while in Australia his first wife died. Some years 
later he married again, and founded a paper which, 
unfortunately, had a brief and chequered career. 
He died in 1895, after a long illness. 

He was the author of many works ; amongst others 
"The Baddinoton Peerage, " and "Twice Round the 
Clock," " Hogarth and His Times," and for a period 
of something like thirty years was a power and 
influence in The Daily Telegraph office. 

I have elsewhere made passing reference to William 
Brunton, who was the cartoonist for Fun under 
Tom Hood's regime. He was an artist of consider- 
able distinction and a man of marked personality — 
a genial, warm-hearted Bohemian, given to erratic 
courses, but a genuine and lovable fellow. 

One afternoon or evening in January 1872 Brunton 
and I were together when he invited me to the Savage 
Club, of which I had heard something in the way of 

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WILLIAM BRUNTON. 



To face page 152. 



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p;^ossij). So we entered a building known as Gordon's 
llotcl, Covcnt Oartlen, mounted a flij^ht of stairs in 
tile darivuess, and in a few moments I found myself in 
a long, dingy room, with windows looking out on to a 
courtyard. At one end of the room was a bar, in 
charge of a young lady, where refreshments of a 
misccllant^ous character could be obtained. The 
walls were adorned with framed play-bills, drawings, 
and, 1 think, a few oil paintings. Through a thick 
hazci of tobacco smok(i I discerned several men, one 
or two of whom I knew by sight, and one I was 
intimate with — that was Tom Hood. Among the 
others were Menry Lee, the genial naturalist ; Charles 
IVIillward, Andr(>w I lalliday, and Henry J. Hyron. 
The two last-named gentlemen were stars of the 
hrst magnitude in the literary and dramatic world at 
that period. Ilalliday (whose full name was I lalliday 
1 )uff) was the son of a clergyman, and an Aberdeen 
University man. He had been with Thackeray on 
Tkc Cornhill, and on the staff of All the Year Round 
under Dickens; besides which he had written many 
plays. Byron was the son of the British Consul at 
Port-auTVince, llayti, and was a native of Manchester. 
He had also edited Fun for a time. Charles Millward, 
who was distinguished both as a journalist and 
dramatist, was for a long time honorary treasurer of 
the Club. He was a singularly generous and big- 
hearted man ; and if any unfortunate member was 
unable to [jay his subscription, Millward dipped his 
hand into his own pocket rather than the member 
should be struck off the list. After a delightful hour or 

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two in this goodly company Brunton, Lee, and I accom- 
panied Halliday to Drury Lane Theatre, where he 
had one of his pieces running. I look back to that 
night as a memorable one, as it was the beginning of 
my connection with the famous Club, of which I still 
have the privilege and honour of counting myself a 
member. I was proposed for election in February 
1872. My proposer was E. P. Hingston, my seconder 
Andrew Halliday. I was one of a number of candi- 
dates who were dealt with by the Committee on the 
9th of March 1872. Among those present were 
Andrew Halliday (the President), E. C. Barnes, E. P. 
Hingston, T. Hersee, Tom Archer, Charles Mill- 
ward, John O'Connor, George Grossmith, sen., 
G. A. Flinders, Jonas Levy, H. B. Chatterton, and 
Edward Draper. I was described as an author and 
journalist, and though I understood I had been elected, 
it appears that the " Minute - Book" was marked 
" Election postponed." Why, I have never been able 
to determine, and it is a mystery to this day. I was 
a constant attendant at the Club, and my right of entry 
was never once challenged. About the end of 1878, 
although I had been using the Club for years, it was 
intimated to me that I must again be put up for 
election. This time my proposer was Henry Lee, 
the genial naturalist, my seconder Charles Vincent 
Boys, and among my supporters were Wallis Mackay ; 
A. M. Denison ; Joe Mackay, one-time editor of 
Vanity Fair; John Cross; Henri Van Laun ; E. J. 
Goodman of the Z^^z/v Telegraph; P. S. Duff; Charles 
Millward ; and John Sturgess, the well-known artist, 

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and I was duly elected on 17th April 1879. As I have 
already stated, however, my connection began in 1872. 
My own impression is I was really elected some time 
in that year ; but as the original Minute-Book was 
partially destroyed, the record of the election was lost. 

As the Savage Club is known the wide world over, 
I propose to deal with it at some length. The Club, 
like many another famous coterie, had a humble and, 
I may say, almost accidental beginning. 

In the " Preface " to a little volume bearing the title 
of " The Savage Club Papers," edited by Andrew 
Halliday, and issued by Tinsley Brothers in 1868, we 
are told by the editor that : 

The Savage Club was founded ten years ago, to 
supply the want which Dr Samuel Johnson and his 
friends experienced when they founded the Literary 
Club. A little band of authors, journalists, and artists 
felt the need of a place of reunion, where, in their 
hours of leisure, they might gather together and enjoy 
each others' society, apart from the publicity of that 
which was known in Johnson's time as the " Coffee- 
House," and equally apart from the chilling splendour 
of a modern club. 

When about a dozen of the original members were 
assembled in the place selected for their meetings, it 
became a question what the Club should be called. 
Everyone in the room suggested a title. One said 
the "Addison," another the "Johnson," a third the 
"Goldsmith," and so forth ; and at last after we had 
run the whole gamut of famous literary names of the 

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modern period, a modest member in the corner sug- 
gested the "Shakespeare." 

This was too much for the gravity of one of the 
company (the late Robert Brough), whose keen sense 
of humour enabled him in the midst of our enthusiasm 
to perceive that we were bent on making ourselves 
ridiculous. 

" Who are we," he said, "that we should take these 
great names in vain ? Don't let us be pretentious. If 
we must have a name let it be a modest one — one that 
signifies as little as possible." Hereupon a member 
called out, in a pure spirit of wantonness, The Savage. 

That keen sense of humour was a^ain tickled. 
" The very thing ! " he exclaimed. " No one can say 
there is anything pretentious in assuming ///^/name. If 
we accept Richard Savage as our godfather, it shows 
there is no pride about us ; if we mean that we are scroi, 
why then it will be a pleasant surprise for those who 
may join us to find the wigwam a Incus a non luccndoy 

And so in a frolicsome humour our little society 
was christened the "Savage Club." 

As Andrew Halliday was present at the meeting 
referred to, and was one of the founders of the Club, 
the above version of the naming may be taken as 
absolutely correct. But there are divided opinions as 
to whether the member who called out " The Savage " 
meant the reprobate Richard Savage, or to dub Brough 
a savage for objecting to the great names that had 
been mentioned. My own view is the latter one. 
However, that is a detail ; one thing is certain, not 

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o 

one of that brilliant band of clever Bohemians could 
possibly have foreseen the fame that the Club was to 
acquire as the years rolled by. 

That memorable meeting when the Club was 
christened took place at the Crown Tavern, Vinegar 
Yard, Drury Lane. And it was in the very same 
room that the first contributors to Punch used to 
meet and arrange their programme. The tavern was 
kept by a Mr Lawson, who was a persona grata 
among the literary and artistic Bohemians of the day, 
while his house had gained a reputation as a resort 
for wits and wags. Lawson himself was somewhat 
of a wit, and affected the company of men of intellect. 
It was under his roof that Augustus Mayhew, James 
Hannay, Watts Phillips, and a few others projected 
and started their comic broadsheet entitled The 
Journal of Laughter. It was not, however, backed 
up by any capital, and though a brilliant and able 
production, it came to grief. 

When the bantling Savage Club located itself at 
the distinguished Crown Tavern, it was arranged 
that each member should pay an annual subscription 
of five shillings for the good of the house. But 
Lawson was so pleased with his guests that he 
subsequently waived this payment, and at his own 
expense he had a set of tumblers engraved with the 
name of the Club. The Club must have felt when 
they saw those tumblers that they were moving up- 
ward. Previous to that, pewter pots had been con- 
sidered orood enouo;h. Amongr the oriq-inal members 
were Robert, William, John, and Lionel Brough. 

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Robert was the secretary, and Andrew Halliday the 
first and only president. Other members were G. 
A. Sala, W. B. Tegetmeier, John HolHngshead, 
Edward Draper, Frank Talfourd, Henry J. Byron, 
Robert Soutar, Horace St John, Charles and James 
Kenney, and Henry Angel. 

A story is told that when the Club was located in 
Vinegar Yard Edmund Yates asked a member one 
day what the subscription to the Club was, and the 
member replied : " Just whatever the member likes 
to owe." This seems to have been the principle on 
which my membership was continued during the 
intervening years between 1872 and 1879. Another 
joke current at the time was that a member was 
seen to change a sovereign in the Club-house, and his 
brother members were so astonished that a Savag-e 
should be in possession of such wealth, that he was 
promptly and peremptorily told he must expend it to the 
uttermost farthing in providing the Club with liquid 
refreshment, or suffer scalping. As he had a regard 
for his scalp, he spent the sovereign like a true Savage. 

In 1858 the Savages removed to the Nell Gwynne 
Tavern, another famed hostelry in its day, and there 
they had a large room, for which they paid a rental of 
jC^o per annum. 

And now the list of members was increased by the 
names of J. L. Toole, Benjamin Webster, George 
Honey, Edmund Falconer, George Belmore, John 
Billington, George Grossmith, sen., " Bill " Romer, 
and one or two lesser liorhts. The Club was sraininsf 
in members, but as it does not seem as if subscriptions 

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were enforced, it was always in financial difficulties. 
It was in the Nell Gwynne Tavern during the Club's 
occupancy that Halliday and Bob Brough wrote the 
Area Belle, and one or two other farces that became 
famous at the Adelphi. 

The next move of the Club was to the first 
floor of the premises which were at a later stage to 
be occupied by Cassell's Echo, in Wellington Street, 
Strand. It chanced, however, that a dancing master 
had rooms above, and proved such a nuisance to the 
Savages that they fled to the Lyceum Tavern, on the 
opposite side of the street. The list of members was 
again lengthened by the names of T. W. Robertson, 
E. A. Southern, the actor ; Henry S. Leigh, the wit and 
poet; Arthur Sketchley, Tom Hood, "Jeff" Prowse, 
Jonas Levy, Frank Vizetelley, and others. The Club re- 
mained at the Lyceum from 1 86 1 to 1 863, and the famous 
Saturday night entertainments were inaugurated. 

In 1862 the Savages entertained at a splendid 
banquet all the members of the foreign Press who 
were attending the great Exhibition of that year. 
This entertainment was in many respects unique. 
The assembly was a polyglot one, and each foreign 
guest was waited upon by a member of the Club who 
could speak the guest's language. The late Dr 
Strauss, who was not the least distinguished of the 
Savages, delighted the company by making a speech 
of welcome in English, French, German, and Italian. 
In the course of the sing-song that followed the feast 
Edward Askew Southern read " Brother Sam's 
Letter," and old George Cruikshank gave a side- 

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splitting recitation, while the renowned Henry Russell 
made a sensation by singing the stirring song called 
" The Ship on Fire," which was afterwards a feature at 
the old Polytechnic Institution, and was sung to the ac- 
companiment of magic-lantern views of a burning ship. 

In the course of 1863 the Club, which even then 
was becoming celebrated, made another flit ; this 
time to Gordon's Hotel in Covent Garden, where it 
located itself for three years. The Saturday night 
entertainments had now become a strong feature, and 
began to attract attention. Viscount Adair (now 
Earl of Dunraven) joined the magic circle of cultured 
Bohemians, as well as Joseph Hatton, Squire Bancroft, 
Kendal, and several distinguished Americans. 

With true savage instincts, it seemed as if the Club 
could not settle long in one place, and so we find it 
making another move about the end of 1866, and it 
pitched its wigwam at "Ashley's" Hotel, Henrietta 
Street, Covent Garden, and there they remained until 
some time in 1869, and they added to their con- 
stantly lengthening members' list such well-known 
names as Artemus Ward, C. H. Burnett (the dis- 
tinguished Punch artist) Stephen Fiske, Clement 
Scott, John Brougham, Charles Lever, F. W. 
Topham, Gilbert and Arthur A'Beckett, Henry 
Irving, F. B. Chatterton (lessee of Drury Lane 
Theatre), Charles Wyndham, and John Hare. 

While in this hostelry the first issue of the " Savage 
Club Papers " took place. The papers were edited by 
Andrew Halliday, and the first series was published 
in 1868 ; a second series in 1869. Tinsley Brothers 

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were the publishers, and the object of the first issue 
was to assist the widow of a dead and g-one Savag-e. 
It was characteristic of these lovable Bohemians, 
who if they lacked money, made up for the lack 
by brains, that they never turned a deaf ear to an 
appeal for help. Surely no body of intellectual men, 
calling themselves a club, have ever placed so many 
good deeds to their account as the clever Savages. 
The Club has gathered to its fold all that is best and 
brightest in Literature, Art, and Science, and let me 
add — the Drama, workers and toilers in their re- 
spective callings to whom wealth gave the cold 
shoulder. And yet of their talents and genius and 
money how freely have they given ! How often have 
they dried the widow's tears and hushed the hunger- 
cry of the orphan ! When a brother was overtaken 
by misfortune, and fell by the wayside, a hundred 
leapt to his rescue. We know that the widow's mite 
found favour with the Lord ; and a thousand and one 
unrecorded acts of benevolence of the working 
Savages will surely be remembered in their favour 
when the Book of Deeds of Men on Earth is opened 
for final judgment. As in the past a cry of distress 
never passed unheeded, so to-day the Savages play 
the part of Good Samaritan, and ready as ever are 
they to cheer and comfort a fallen brother. 

The time had come now for another move, and we 
find the Savages back at Gordon's, Covent Garden ; 
but their stay on this occasion was very short, and 
they skipped into "Evan's," close by, where they 
settled down for another three years. Mark Twain, 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

W, J. Florence. John M'Cullogh. became Savages 
during" this period. But now the Committee seemed 
to be seized with a mania for "piUing," and among 
the rejected ones were \V. S. Gilbert, and many other 
well-known men distinguished in the world of Letters 
and Art. This blackballing went on for some time 
relentlessly, and apparently for no earthly reason 
beyond that oi caprice. What the Club lacked at 
this period was business organisation. The Savages 
could write brilliant books, heart-moving poems, 
stirring dramas, draw, paint pictures, display almost 
startling phases ot intellectuality, but they wanted 
the spirit of commercialism. But it was not to be 
expected of them ; indeed, it would have been contrary 
to the true principles of intellectual Bohemianism had 
they allowed the commercial instincts to predominate. 
And so in their own delightful, slipshod w^ay they 
conducted the affairs o( the Club ; and there were 
muddle and confusion often, occasionally almost chaos. 
Yet is it not remarkable that the Club has flourished 
throuoh it all. and the hio^hest in the land have 
deemed it an honour to partake oi Savage hospitality, 
while this year of grace marks its Jubilee ? Fifty years 
have come and gone since the Club became a living 
force : hundreds of Savages during that period have 
laid down the burden of life, but their memory is kept 
green in the hearts o{ the living members : and to-day 
the Club is as a vigforous gfreen bav-tree, and though 
it may be conducted on stricter business lines, its 
keynote is one o\' fraternal regard for all whose proud 
privilege it is to count themselves members. 

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PaG:cs from an Adventurous Life 

Althouoh there is some mystery about my member- 
ship at the time I am dcaHnei^ with, I had the run of the 
Club, as I have already stated. And now once again the 
Savaoes went on the trail, and on this occasion trekked 
to Maxell's in the Strand ; and after a brief period 
there we next find them in the Caledonian Hotel on 
the Adelphi Terrace, and it was while the Club was 
at that hostelry that I was properly enrolled by being 
called upon to pay an entrance fee and subscription. 
There was one tra^^ic incident in connection with the 
tenancy at the Caledonian which threw a deep gloom 
over the Savacre Brotherhood. There was no more 
popular member than dear old George Grossmith, 
sen. He hadn't an enemy in the world, while his 
friends were numbered by scores. On the 24th of 
April 1880 he was presiding at the Saturday night 
House Dinner, there being an unusually large 
gathering of Savages, for George always drew a big 
house. He had just recited — and he could recite — a 
most amusing scene called " An incident in the Life 
of the late Serjeant Talfourd," the Savages were still 
roaring with laughter, when Grossmith was suddenly 
seized with an attack of apoplexy. Instantly the 
laughter ceased, and there were consternation and 
heartfelt sorrow. The unconscious gentleman was 
removed to another room, and medical aid was at 
once forthcoming. His second son, Walter, was 
present at the time, and he instantly despatched a 
message for his elder brother George, who was playing 
in The Pirates of Penzance at the Opera Comique. 
But poor Grossmith never rallied, and died in the 

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Club-house about three hours after the seizure. He 
was just sixty years of age. It is a curious fact 
that his friend, Serjeant Talfourd, about whom he 
was telHng the funny story, had a few years previously, 
in precisely the same way, been seized with apoplexy 
on the bench. Another curious fact is that the last 
music Grossmith heard was Beethoven's Funeral 
March, played by his own special request on the 
piano. The pianist was the late Theodore Drew. 

There is an amusing little story, in which I figure, 
relating to this period that I cannot resist telling. 
It was a bitter winter day, London was at its worst, 
gloom and grime everywhere. I went into the Club- 
room about three o'clock in the afternoon. A solitary 
member sat disconsolate over the fire. He looked 
up as I entered, and greeted me glumly. " Do you 
happen to have five shillings?" he inquired. It 
happened that I hadn't. "I'm sorry," he mumbled; 
" I should have liked to have drunk my own health." 
The landlord of the hotel, I may mention, was a 
commercial man. It was cash on delivery with him. 
Entered a third member. " Do you happen to have 
five shillings.'^" was asked. It was singular, but 
even that member didn't happen to have the insignifi- 
cant sum. And the three of us huddled round the 
fire, and thirsted for scalps. Then there came unto us 
a fourth Savage ; and he didn't happen to have it, 
but he had genius and a solitary shilling. Now, a 
shilling wasn't much amongst four, but, backed up 
by genius, it did wonders. It was John L. Toole's 
birthday, and the genial actor was playing an engage- 

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ment in Dublin. So genius said : " Let us spend the 
shilling in wishing him many happy returns of the 
day by telegraph." And we did, and gave our four 
names. Then we watched the clock. The wretched 
old thing, in order to mock us, insisted in putting a 
hundred and twenty minutes into the hour. But 
presently an angel's voice was heard ; no, it was only 
a telegraph boy. A telegram from Dublin. "Thanks, 
dear boys. Drink my health. Order in what you like. 
I'll square. Toole." Four Savages sat round the 
fire, on the hearth-rug a steaming bowl of ex- 
cellent punch. Four glasses were raised, and "many 
happy returns " said. Other Savages came. More 
punch. More Savages, more punch. A fig for the 
gloom of London ! That cosy room, those delightful 
Savages, the pipes of peace, the delicious aroma of 
the steaming punch as the full bowls replaced the 
empty ones ! The world was very good and life a 
delightful dream ! A fortnight later there was an 
awakening. Toole was back in town, and "Just 
dropped in, dear boys, don't you know." Then forth 
came he of the hostel with " Mr Toole's little ac- 
count," half-a-yard long ; whereupon there arose a yell, 
and J. L. T. panted for scalps — four scalps, the scalps 
of the four members who had consumed a hogshead of 
punch in wishing him " many happy returns." " Why, 
good gracious, they must have bathed in it, don't 
you know." But dear old Johnny settled the score, 
and told the " boys " to give their orders to the waiter, 
although it didn't happen to be anybody's birthday. 
Dear, delightful Toole ! Fate gave him many 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

friends, but seared his icindly heart with domestic 
altlictioiis. Slowly he drifted to a better world, and 
we who liiiLier yet a little lonoer keep his memory 
green, for he was a lovable man, and the good that 
he did lives after him. 

From the Caledonian 1 lotel the Club betook itself to 
Lancaster House in the Savoy, and here for the first 
time the Savages had a Club-house more suited to their 
ever-increasing numbers, and they began to cater for 
themselves. The longest stay they had up to then ever 
made in one place was made there. Nine years! And 
what an eventful nine years they were ! The Club had 
the great honour of entertaining H.R.H. the Prince of 
Wales, now His Majesty Edward VH. The Prince 
was duly enrolled a Savage, and remained so until he 
ascended the throne, when he graciously requested that 
his son, the present Prince of Wales, might be elected 
a member of the famous Club, which was now known 
all over the world. It was during the Savoy era that 
Mr H. M. Stanley, Mr W. E. Gladstone, M.P., 
Lord Wolseley, two Lord Mayors, and many other 
very distinguished people, were the Club's guests. 

At last the time came when another move became 
necessary, and still clinging to the neighbourhood of 
their beloved Strand, the Savages took up their abode 
in the spacious and comfortable premises they now 
occupy on the Adelphi, where they are likely to 
remain for some years yet. 

I have thus traced the wanderings of this unique 
Club from its inception down to the present day, "when 
it numbers on its list — 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

H.R. H. the Prince of Wales, K.G., etc. 
His Excellency Whitelaw Reid. 
Right Hon. P^arl Roberts, V.C, K.G. 
Right Hon. Viscount Kitchener, G.C.B. 
Right Hon. Lord Alverstone, G.C.M.G. 

(Lord Chief Justice of England). 
The Right Hon. and Right Rev. the Lord 

Bishop of London. 
Dr Fridtjof Nansen. 

Capt. Robert F. Scott, R.N., C.V.O., D.Sc. 
H.R.H. the Duke of Connaught. 

It is a far stretch back to those early days in 
Vinegar Yard, when the small band of clever and 
happy-go-lucky Bohemians decided to call their then 
little coterie the Savage Club. 

Now it goes without saying that among a body of 
men representing Literature, the Arts, and Sciences, 
and the Urama, banded together for mutual inter- 
course, there should be a very pronounced fraternal 
spirit, and in this respect I boldly assert that the Club 
stands alone ; while its readiness at all times to help in 
any good cause has given it a world-wide reputation 
for benevolence and charity. 

In the issue of The Illustrated London News for 
4th February i860 appeared the following para- 
graph :— 

There is a little Club in London which deserves to 
be known. It flourishes almost without subscriptions, 
but lives on wit and wine, on fun and Barclay & 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

Perkins. It is called the Savao-e, not from the Savao-e 
made immortal by Johnson. It is not a little Garrick, 
but it includes within its walls many men well known 
in Letters and Art, 



This " Little Club " which lived on wit and wine, and 
deserved to be known, promptly became known, for a 
month after the above paragraph appeared — that is to 
say, on 7th March i860 — it gave an amateur perform- 
ance at the Lyceum Theatre for the benefit of the 
widows and families of two of their confreres who had 
recently died. The pieces selected were T/ie School 
for Scandal, in which the talented actress Miss Amy 
Sedgwick appeared, and a new burlesque of The 
Forty Thieves. This performance was honoured 
by the presence of Her Most Gracious Majesty 
Queen Victoria ; her consort, Prince Albert, and a 
brilliant suite ; while the house was packed from floor 
to ceiling, until there wasn't an inch of room to spare. 
It may almost safely be said that never before, in this 
country at least, had an amateur performance been 
honoured in such a marked way. Moreover, " The 
Little Club " proved that the fame which had so 
suddenly come to it was well deserved, for the per- 
formance was admirable in every sense of the word. 

The principal characters in the comedy were sus- 
tained by F. Talfourd, William Brough, Robert B. 
Brough, Crawford Wilson, Henry J. Byron, Andrew 
Halliday, and Edward Draper. The burlesque, which 
was a screamingly funny thing, was the joint produc- 
tion of several authors, including J. R. Planche, 

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Francis Talfourd, Henry J. Byron, Leicester Buck- 
ingham (son of the famous James Silk Buckin<^ham), 
Andrew HaUiday, Edward Draper, and the Broughs. 
The Royal party, it is said, were convulsed with 
laughter, and the Queen expressed the pleasure her 
visit to the theatre had afforded her. The perform- 
ance was a huge success, and the next morning " The 
Little Club " woke up to find itself famous. Probably 
on such a memorable occasion it did not go to bed at 
all that night. There was hardly a paper in the whole 
of Great Britian that hadn't a lengthy notice of the 
event ; and then the chronicle went rolling round the 
world, until it was known in the remotest corner of 
the mighty British Empire. On 26th June of the 
same notable year the Club was saddened by the 
death of poor, clever Robert Brough, who died at 
Manchester. He had been in indifferent health for 
some time, and was on his way to Wales, hoping to 
recuperate in the Welsh mountain air. He had dis- 
tinguished himself as a journalist, dramatist, poet, and 
had gained considerable fame for his version of the 
songs of Beranger. Dear old, kindly Bohemian, how 
ready he had always been to help others, and now 
that he had gone down into the dust up sprang " The 
Little Club" to aid "Bob's" family. And on 25th 
July i860 it gave a performance at Drury Lane 
Theatre. Among the Committee on that occasion 
were Edmund Yates, T. German Reed, George 
Cruikshank, Henry Mayhew, Herbert Ingram, M. P., 
Dante Rossetti, E. L. Blanchard, J. Stirling Coyne, 
Tom Taylor, Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins, 

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G. A. Sala, Mark Lemon, Shirley Brooks. Ye gods ! 
what a list of names! Every man is dead, yet even 
at the present day each name is one to conjure with, 
Sala wrote a stirrino;; address, which he himself de- 
livered with telling effect, for he was a brilliant elocu- 
tionist. The performance was a great success, and 
realised a large sum of money. In 1S62 the reader 
need not be told that there was famine sore in the 
Lancashire land. The Civil War then raoringf in 
America had stopped the supplies of cotton, and thou- 
sands of operatives throughout Lancashire were suffer- 
ing hunger and poverty, while grim death stalked 
through their midst. Then up rose the Savages 
again. They had previously given a performance in 
Liverpool in i860, and on 3rd September 1862 they 
journeyed down to the great shipping town to play at 
the Theatre Royal for the " Relief of the unemployed 
Operatives." The pieces played were A Romantic 
Idea, written by Planche, and an original burlesque 
entitled Valentine & Orson, in which most of the 
distinguished amateurs of the Club took part. Shir- 
ley Brooks wrote an address that was delivered by 
Mrs Stirling. Needless to say, the performance was 
a pronounced success, and a large sum was handed 
over to the " Famine Fund." 

On 14th June 1862, the year of the Exhibition, 
there were many foreign representatives of the Press 
in London, and these gentlemen were splendidly 
entertained by- the Savages, and were loud in their 
praises not only of the generous hospitality extended 
to them, but of the wit and talent displayed by the 

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respective members of "The Little Club." It is, I 
think, worth while to refer here to an incident which 
at the time caused a good deal of friction. In 1867 
a so-called comic paper appeared under the title of The 
Tomahawk, which seemed to imagine that abuse and 
vulgarity would pass for wit. The weekly paper 
known as The Court Journa/y with profound stupidity, 
jumped at once to the conclusion that The Tomahawk 
was the production of the Savage Club, and the dull 
and ponderous Co7i7't Journal proceeded to abuse the 
Club in the most scurrilous and vulgar manner. The 
then president of the Savages, Andrew Halliday, lost 
no time in disclaiming, on behalf of the Club, any 
connection direct or indirect with the publication 
named, and compelled the flippant critic to make a 
most abject apology to the members of the Club for 
the way he had insulted them. The article com- 
plained about was slanderous and impudent in the 
extreme, and the wonder is that the editor of a paper 
claiming to be respectable should have allowed such 
an article to have appeared without first assuring 
himself that it was justified. But The Court Journal 
has never been distinguished for ability of any kind, 
despite its somewhat pretentious title. 

I have elsewhere referred to Artemus Ward's death. 
He passed away at Radley's Hotel, Southampton. It 
was on 6th March of 1867. He had long been in 
critical health, and was on his way to America, 
which he hoped to reach before the inevitable end 
came. But it was not to be. Many of his old friends 
in the Savage Club went down to see him, and do 

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what they could to cheer him in his last hours. 
I myself was not a member of the Club at that 
time. His body was brought back to London, 
and laid to rest in Kcnsal Green Cemetery. It 
is not a little curious that Artemus Ward's death 
was very nearly the cause of totally wrecking the 
Savage Club ; for a dispute arose, and led to a 
newspaper controversy as to whether or not Browne 
had died in the Roman Catholic or Protestant faith. 
The Club was almost rent asunder, and for a time 
there was bitterness. It is remarkable that a number 
of clever Bohemians like the Savages should have 
fallen to wrangling at such a time and about such a 
matter. It was by no means an edifying spectacle. 
However, it did not last long, fortunately, and probably 
would not have occurred at all, had the following 
paragraph not appeared in The Tablet : — 

Mr Charles Browne died at Radley's Hotel, 
Southampton, on Ash Wednesday (March 1867). 
The Rev. Robert Mount, the Catholic priest at 
Southampton, was with him three times during his 
last hours ; and on the information which he received, 
did, under the circumstances, what he was justified in 
doing for the spiritual safety of the dying man. 

In reply to this a member of the Savage Club, and 
one of Ward's earliest English friends (E. P. Hingston), 
addressed the following letter to the editor of The 
Tablet, in which paper it appeared, as well as in The 
Pontipine, on 23rd March 1867 : — 

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Sir, — As your brief obituary notice of the late 
lamented Artemus Ward almost implies that my late 
friend was a Roman Catholic, will you kindly permit 
me to state that Charles Farrar Browne lived aad 
died in the Protestant faith? It is quite true that a 
Roman Catholic clergyman called upon him during 
the early stages of his last illness, and kindly tendered 
his spiritual offices, but those offices were respectfully 
and firmly declined. The same reverend gentleman 
also visited my poor friend on Sunday, the 3rd instant ; 
but Mr Browne was then unconscious, and from that 
hour to the moment of his death, existence to him 
was a blank, and he expired peacefully and painlessly 
in the presence of friends whom he loved to know, 
but whom he failed to recognise during the last sad 
days of his life. Mr Browne had previously and re- 
peatedly assured me that he was not a Roman Catholic, 
and hence it was that his sorrowing friends interred his 
body at Kensal Green in strict accordance with the 
faith he always professed. The same friends would 
have followed his dust with equal reverence to a 
Roman Catholic burial if their much lamented com- 
panion had been a follower of that faith ; but Mr 
Browne lived and died a Protestant, and as a Protestant 
he was buried. In conclusion, permit me to quote 
from a letter I have just received from an old play- 
mate and school-fellow of poor Artemus : " In 
regard to the stories in circulation that Artemus was 
born and bred under the Roman Catholic faith, I can 
say, and knowingly, that such was not the case. I 
never heard of a Roman Catholic in the American 

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town of Waterford. There are three churches there, 
viz. CongregationaHst, Methodist, and UniversaHst. 
All of Artemus' family belonged and attended the 
CongregationaHst — the same that my own family 
attended. Artemus and myself were in the same 
Sabbath school, so do not think, if Artemus or his 
mother could have been asked, but their wish would 
have been just what you have carried out." 

I should not have touched on the subject here, but 
I feel that the history of the Club would hardly be 
complete without a reference to it. A more interesting 
theme is the followingr amusino- account of the first 
meeting between Henry J. Byron and Artemus Ward 
at the Savage Club. 

Mr Howard Paul is responsible for the following 
particulars of a little passage of arms between the 
humorists, at that time two of the leading wits of 
the Club. The particulars as given are undoubtedly 
correct. It was after one of the Saturday dinners 
that Tom Robertson urged Artemus to have a tilt 
with Byron, and if possible, draw him out. The 
gentle Artemus had only been in England a few days, 
and was therefore, in a sense, a stranger ; but he knew 
Byron well by reputation, and, of course, Artemus 
himself was a lion ; so pulling his long moustache, as 
was his wont, he remarked in his inimitable drawl to 
Byron, who sat opposite him : 

*' I say, I fancy I've seen a face like yours before. 
Did you ever have a brother named Alonzo ? " 

For a moment or two the dramatist was rather 

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taken aback ; but he was too keen to be long at a 
disadvantage, and grasping the situation, replied, with 
a mournful expression of face : 

"Alas, alas! I had, poor dear — my only brother." 

" He was a mariner, engaged on the deep, if I 
mistake not ? " 

"That's so. Why, you seem to have my family 
history at your finger-ends." 

"Ah! Now it's within my knowledge that you 
haven't heard from him for five years ? " 

Byron affected to be lost in meditation, and presently 
replied slowly : 

" It's five years ago this very day. What a remark- 
able coincidence that you should have mentioned it ! 
It's wonderful — really wonderful ! " 

"Well — sir," replied Artemus, whipping out his 
handkerchief, and brushing away an imaginary tear — 
" I sailed the salt seas — the salt seas, mark you — with 
your beloved brother. We were wrecked together in 
the Gulf of Mexico ; yes, it was the Gulf of Mexico, 
as I remember well. I have a good memory. I 
loved him. Now, sir, circumstances arose, that I 
need not enter upon, which rendered it necessary for 
me to eat your dear brother. The moment I saw 
you I recognised the family likeness. He was an 
excellent fellow, full of tender " 

" I'm glad you found him tender ; his family didn't." 
And Byron whipped out his handkerchief, and swept 
away a lot of imaginary tears. 

" But, sir," pursued Artemus in the most imperturb- 
able way, " I'm really sorry I ate him. Had I thought 

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for a moment that I should subsequently meet his 
brother, I'm sure I would have gone without food 
for several weeks longer ; for we were good chums, 
and as I say, I loved him. But, you see, I was 
driven to it. You'll forgive me, won't you ? I really 
adored Alonzo. I found him extremely good." He 
put out his hand, which Byron grasped with great 
cordiality. 

" Excuse my emotion," whimpered Byron in broken 
tones. " He never wrote and told me what he was 
doing or where he was going to. He was a rum 
chap " 

" Yes ; he was strongly impregnated with it ; it was 
in his blood." 

" I hope, Mr Ward, that poor Alonzo agreed with 
you.'' 

"Well, I had a slight indigestion afterwards. In 
parts he was tough. He was a mariner, you see, and 
was a bit salt, apart from his rum flavour. But we 
will not speak of that. We both suffered — he suffered 
most ; but I really despatched him as lovingly as I 
could. It was stern necessity, you know. We sea- 
faring men are often driven to it. The law, of course, 
can't touch me now. Necessity, as you are aware, 
knows no law. But I'm quite willing to compensate 
you for the loss you have suffered." 

"Pray, don't mention it — don't mention it. He 
supported you, or you would not now be telling me 
this mournful story. I think therefore " 

" Now what do you think, Mr Byron, would be fair 
compensation ? " 

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Byron looked up, and there was an inquiring look 
in his eyes. 

" Let me see," he remarked drily ; " I think your 
name is Ward — Artemus Ward ? " 

"That is so my friend. There is only one of us." 

"And you are the humorist? You've written a 
book.-* You've run a show? You've told funny 
stories ? " 

" How true, how true! You are evidently well in- 
formed. I certainly have perpetrated all those crimes." 

" You had a father ? " 

" I have always been given to understand that such 
was the case. My dear mother told me so, and she 
was a truthful woman." 

"Your father, if I don't err, was a Yankee pedlar 
in his own country. Is that true ? " 

"It's gospel truth. Now, it's real strange you 
should know that, Mr Byron." 

" He peddled bug pizen and fine tooth combs?" 

"You've hit the comb — I mean the nail — -on the head. 
His calling is now a matter of history." 

" He died in the Black Country of England?" 

"Truth again. He also lived there, or he couldn't 
have died there." 

"Well, I killed him. I knew you were his son the 
moment I set eyes on you. He was a very nice old 
gentleman. I first made his acquaintance in Stafford- 
shire, and I loved him. He was most anxious to go 
down a deep coal mine, so was I. We went down 
together, and had an elegant time. We explored, 
lunched with the miners, drank more than was good 
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for us, then began to return to the upper earth — 
Mother Earth. After you've been down a mine you 
feel fond of your mother, I can tell you. The prodigal 
son felt nothing compared with what I experienced 
at that moment. As we were being drawn up from 
the bowels I saw that the old rope was giving way 
under the strain, for your dear father was a heavy 
man. It was a perilous, a critical, a horrible moment. 
I was always good, very good. I used to go to 
Sunday school ; but I was not prepared to die then, 
and I eyed your respected parent fiercely. He had 
no business to be so bulky. Self-preservation is, as 
you are aware, the first law of nature. It's a wonder- 
ful law. In another instant we should both have been 
lost. I was good, very good ; your father — well, I 
knew nothing against his moral character, but he was 
a great weight, you see. He had done himself too 
well in his time. He preyed on my mind as I looked 
at him, he was so bulky. We were then about fifty 
feet from the top. I called your dear father's attention 
to something. I induced him to gaze below into the 
awful black depths ; he did so, when I gently tipped 
him over, and he went whirling and crashing to the 
bottom. He was a very fat man, you'll remember. 
Bulky men fall heavily. It was rough on him, of 
course, and I understand he did some damage to the 
mine, but I saved myself. I ciphered it out on the 
instant like this : He is an old man, he is bald, deaf 
in his right ear, two of his teeth gone in front, and 
anyway he couldn't last for more than another score 
of years, even if he gave up drink and good living. 

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I am half his age, strong and healthy, the father of a 
young family, with a career before me, a comedy to 
finish for the Haymarket, and a burlesque accepted 
for the Strand. Now, I ask you, sir, if, under the 
distressing circumstances, I did not behave nobly?" 

" Nobly, nobly ; indeed you did, my friend," sobbed 
Ward. " I would have done the same thing myself 
to your father." 

"I am glad," replied Byron, "to find you so in- 
telligent. You do credit to your country, sir — the 
country of the Stars and Stripes and the Almighty 
Dollar. You ate my brother, and found him tough ; 
and I killed your dear old father. He was a fine man, 
and I loved him, but the case was urgent. I was 
forced into it. However, we are both avenged. Let 
us draw a veil over the sad past, and during your 
stay here never allude again to these heartrending 
incidents ; they tend to disturb one's equanimity." 

" Agreed, agreed," cried Ward cheerfully. " Shake, 
my friend." And Artemus extended his hand, and 
with the other dramatically dashed away a flood of 
imaginary tears. " Now what's your pizen ? Here, 
waiter, take the orders." 

A crowd had collected round the two wits ; there 
were roars of laughter ; the friendship was cemented, 
and ever after Artemus and Byron were devoted to 
each other. Byron followed him to the grave, and 
survived him only fifteen years. 

On the 13th of March 1870 the Club lost another 
of its founders and most distinguished members in the 
person of William Brough, whose death caused 

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sincere and widespread sorrow. He was a brilliant 
dramatist, and his burlesques and extravaganzas have 
never been equalled. In all his writings he was 
bright, sparkling, witty, with never a suggestion of 
coarseness. He was only forty-four when he died, 
yet he had been before the public for twenty-two 
years. 

Less than twelve months later poor Tom W. 
Robertson went over to the majority after a long 
illness. He died on the 4th of February 1871, in 
what should have been the prime of his manhood. 
He had been staying at Torquay in search of health, 
but returned to his home in Eton Road, Haverstock 
Hill, knowing that his days were numbered, and 
there he gradually faded out. 

Robertson was born in Newark-on-Trent on the 
9th of January 1829, his parents being members of 
the theatrical profession. Educated partly in England 
and partly in Holland, he produced his first piece when 
he was about twenty-two. It was called A Night's 
Adventure ; or Highivays and Byivays, and was 
played at the Olympic under William Farren's 
management. It was not a success, however, and 
his name did not come prominently before the public, 
until his clever adaptation of David Garrick, with 
Southern in the title role, was produced at the 
Haymarket in 1864. From that moment he never 
looked back, and his brilliant and strikingly original 
comedies under the Marie Wilton regime at the 
little Prince of Wales' Theatre, out of the Tottenham 
Court Road, brought him undying fame. Apart 

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from his abilities as a dramatist, he was distinguished 
as a journaHst and essayist. It is recorded that 
when he knew his end was near he exclaimed 
pathetically to a friend : " Oh, if I had only known 
fame was coming to me, wouldn't I have taken pills." 
He left a family of three children. His son Tom 
became a member of the Savage Club, and died in 
May 1895. 

On 31st August 1872 Henry M. Stanley, even 
then famed as the correspondent of The New York 
Herald, was entertained by the Club at the Gordon 
Hotel, Covent Garden. He had recently returned 
from his great journey into the heart of Africa in 
search of Livingstone, and with what success the 
world now knows. For some unaccountable reason 
he had been bitterly, even brutally assailed by a 
certain section of the English Press, and denounced as 
an impostor. This attack upon him was as unjustifi- 
able as it was cruel, and reflected most discreditably 
on the journals that lent themselves to it. In respond- 
ing to the toast of his health at the Club he made a 
most powerful speech, and was led into scathing re- 
marks apropos to the doubts that had been thrown on 
his veracity by disreputable journals. When he came 
to speak of Livingstone he quite broke down, and had 
to pause for some moments until he could recover him- 
self ; then in tremulous voice he described his meeting 
with the famous missionary and explorer at Ujiji. 

After the dinner the company adjourned to the 
Vaudeville Theatre, and a sketch was made of Stanley 
as he sat in his box by a member of the Club. From 

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that sketch, which I am able to reproduce here, it will 
be seen that he was a most striking-looking man. 

At a later period I came to see much of him, and I 
was one of the first to welcome him when he returned 
to England after his discovery of the Congo. He 
was certainly one of the most remarkable men it has 
ever been my privilege to know ; a man with a great 
intellect, a tender heart, and apparently a cast-iron 
frame. But suffering and hardships broke him down. 
One day, after he became a Member of Parliament, 
I sat with him in the smoking-room of the House of 
Commons, and on his refusing to partake of some 
whisky and water I asked him if he didn't think a 
little stimulant might be of benefit to him. He looked 
at me, and with a sad smile on his pallid face, said : 

" My dear Muddock, stimulant would kill me dead. 
Weak tea is the only thing I can take, and that poisons 
me. I knew before I came home Africa had sealed 
my doom. Kismet!" 

Stanley, like everyone else who becomes a con- 
spicuous figure in the world, was the victim of a great 
deal of spiteful criticism. Envy, jealousy, and hatred 
will never be eliminated from human nature, and there 
is no doubt there were those who envied him his 
success. I remember hearing a Member of Parlia- 
ment who had travelled extensively, but had never 
done anything, say : " I don't know what they are mak- 
ing all this fuss about Stanley for. After all, what has 
he accomplished that any other determined man 
couldn't have done ? " Well I, who know something of 
the conditions under which he had to travel, declare 









« H 



O O o 



a. 



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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

fearlessly that his journeys into the Dark Continent 
were little short of marvellous, and revealed him as one 
of the most remarkable men the last century produced. 
To accuse him, as he was accused, of simply seeking 
self-glorification, was ridiculous. Such a tempera- 
ment and disposition as he possessed would have en- 
abled him to gain plenty of glory without taking risks, 
if glory had been the only thing that actuated him. 
But with his life in his hands he went forth into the 
darkness, braving death in a thousand forms ; suffer- 
ing disease, discomfort, hunger, and thirst, not merely 
for the sake of glory, but because he felt he had a 
mission to accomplish, and he resolved to accomplish 
it at all hazards. It was said that he had faults of 
temper ; that his organisations were bad ; that he sacri- 
ficed men where such sacrifice was unnecessary. He 
was even twitted with his humble origin. All this 
criticism of stay-at-home critics, who took precious 
good care of their own skins, might have been ignored ; 
but it wounded the man, he felt it keenly, and when 
his final triumph came in the successful accomplish- 
ment of his last great expedition, he knew it had been 
gained at the cost of his life. Few who saw him on 
the morning of his marriage in Westminster Abbey 
but felt that his days were practically numbered. His 
life's work was done, but he had indelibly carved his 
name on the world's history. 

On the nth of June 1876 another gap was made 
in the ranks of the old Savages by the death of Walter 
Thornbury under the most distressing circumstances. 
I was personally acquainted with him, and frequently 

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sat near him at the British Museum, and used to 
marvel at his eneroy and tremendous capacity for 
work. He died from physical breakdown, and mental 
disorder which necessitated his confinement. He was 
laid to rest near my dear old friend, Tom Hood, in 
Nunhead Cemetery. He contributed largely to House- 
hold Words, and subsequently to All the Year Round. 
He produced "Art and Nature at Home and 
Abroad," " British Artists, from Hogarth to Turner," 
as well as an excellent '* Life of Turner." He was 
also the author of " Haunted London " and the first 
two volumes of " Old and New London " ; a volume 
of stirring songs called " Songs of the Cavaliers and 
Roundheads," which met with great success. Indeed, 
he was a most voluminous writer, and as an art critic 
he enjoyed wide popularity, but the fierce fire of 
his energy destroyed him. Only a month before 
Thornbury's death another of my friends and a 
prominent Savage died, in the person of E. P. 
Hingrston. the well-known theatrical manaoer and 
entrepreneur. He had been the lessee of the little 
Opera Comique, where amongst other things he 
produced were Chilperic and rev) I Crt've. He 
was also manager of Spiers & Pond's, Hall by 
the Sea ; an all-round, clever man and a genial good 
fellow. 

In February 1S77 the Club became poorer by the 
death of John Oxenford. for long the dramatic critic 
of The Times, and on iSth April of the same year 
my good friend, Andrew Halliday, passed away. He 
was laid to rest in Highgate Cemetery, in the presence 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

of a very large gathering of mourners, including nearly 
eighty members of the Club. 

On Wednesday, 6th March 1878, the Coming of 
Age Dinner was held in the banqueting hall of the 
Grosvenor Gallery, when George Augustus Sala 
occupied the chair, and among those present were 
Sir Garnet Wolseley, as he was then. Lieutenant 
George, Valentine Baker, Lord Mark Ker, Captain 
Fred Burnaby, Hepworth Uixon, Mr Alderman 
Cotton, M.P., all the Grossmiths, H. Van Laun, 
and a host of other distinguished people. In propos- 
ing the toast of the Savage Club the chairman said : 

" It is the toast of long life, health, and prosperity 
to an institution which has attained its majority, and 
is now in the twenty-first year of its age — the Savage 
Club. It is the toast of our noble selves. The toast 
will be received with enthusiasm, I have no doubt, for 
in drinking the toast you do not incur the slightest 
responsibility. I happened to be present the other 
evening at a public dinner, where the chairman, a 
most munificent man, a well-known baronet, and 
a Member of Parliament, contributed ;^200 to the 
funds of the charity, but subsequently took it out by 
pitching into it — the charity — and implying it was 
mismanaged. No such invidious task lies before me 
to-night. It is my pleasant and gratifying duty to 
bear my testimony to the worth of the gentlemen 
gathered here and to the admirable qualities of the 
Club, What is a club? It has been defined by a 
former Savage as a weapon of defence invented to 

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keep off the white woman. So far as my experience 
goes, the Savages have always been tender to their 
squaws — and so far as I am personally concerned, 
I can say that during my fifty years I have never 
ceased to entertain the most passionate and Platonic 
affection for La Belle Sauvage. The learned and 
judicious Addison remarked that the foundation and 
origin of all celebrated clubs was in eating and drink- 
ing, because on all these points the majority of man- 
kind were agreed. Thouo^h there is no grreater 
admirer of Addison than your humble chairman, I 
venture to dissent altogether from his postulate. 
This Club had its origin in something beyond eating 
and drinking ; and it is not by any means a convivial 
institution, but it is a society of literary men, artists, 
dramatists, comedians, gravitating together by a 
common sympathy for all that is beautiful and good. 
Our first Club-room was a very modest apartment 
indeed, and the few survivors of that gathering of 
young men are proud to see the distinguished com- 
pany gathered to join in their festivity at the coming 
of age of their infant. There are clubs and clubs. I 
have belonged to a good many in my time, and my 
friend, Hepworth Dixon, can I daresay, also remem- 
ber more or less aspiring literary gatherings which 
have had their apotheosis, and whose record is now 
written in the long history of the past. But among 
these disappearing ones the Savage holds its position, 
and promises to attain even more extensive dimen- 
sions, because it has always been true to itself, and 
utterly devoid of anything like pretentions or arro- 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

gance. It is proud to see men of rank at its board, 
but it remains what it always was, a reunion of 
literary men, actors, artists, and men of science. At 
the same time I should be less than human were not 
a little bitter mingled with my sweet to-night, for 
looking round me, and seeing how happy, distin- 
guished, and prosperous we are, I can but remember 
with softened grief how many dear friends were once 
members here with me. Nor could there be a more 
proper occasion than this to remind those Savages 
who have recently joined, and our distinguished 
visitors, of some of the earlier men among us, who, 
had they lived, would have made a noise in the world, 
and attained a brilliant position. I cannot refrain 
from speaking of Robert B rough, one of the founders 
of the Club, the merriest wit, a poet of the first water, 
whose writings never attained half the popularity 
they deserved, and only now linger in the memory 
of a few friends. Among our artistic founders was 
Charles Bennett, merriest and most facile of draughts- 
men ; Walter M'Connell, another gifted man; and 
especially do I mourn over the fate of our late 
president, Andrew Halliday, whose heart and purse 
were always open to the claims of all, and who, 
though dead, lives, and will live, in the hearts of his 
friends. Of this Society I had the honour of being 
a founder, and I may say that, as no institution long 
continues to fulfil the exact intention of its pro- 
moters, we did not dream when we began in our 
humble inn in Catherine Street that we should live 
to hail so magnificent a gathering as this in the 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

Grosverror Gallery. But in this development, in 
this advance towards prosperity, the Savage Club 
has always been what it was intended to be, a meet- 
ing of men drawn together by common sympathies, 
and by a determination to maintain the dignity of 
their professions of literature, art, and science." 



1 88 



CHAPTER VI 

Annual dinner of the Savage Club — Great gathering of notabilities — 
Mr W. E. Gladstone's speech — Lord Mayor Sir Francis Wyatt 
Truscott entertains the Club at the Mansion House — Dr Bennett's 
tribute — Move to the Caledonian — Dinner at Willis's Rooms — 
H.R.H. Prince of Wales present — The Prince becomes a Savage — 
A memorable night — Death of Arthur Matthison — Death of 
Henry S. Leigh — "Broken Toys" — Death of Henry J. Byron — 
The Maori king, Tawhia, entertained — "Dead in the Desert" — 
London newspaper correspondents entertained. 

On Saturday, the 14th of June 1879, the annual 
dinner of the Club took place at the Pall Mall 
Restaurant, and was marked by the most brilliant 
array of notable guests that had ever partaken of the 
hospitality of the Savages at one time. To mention 
only a few, there were Mr W. E. Gladstone, M.P., 
Mr Frith, R.A., and the following distinguished mem- 
bers of the Comedie Fran^aise : — MM. Got, Delaunay, 
Baire, Monnet Sully, and M. Edmund About. The 
chair was most ably filled by Lord Dunraven, who 
had joined the Club years before, when he was 
Viscount Adair. 

Henry J. Byron in a singularly witty speech replied 
for the Drama, and genial, clever Henri Van Laun, 
of whom I shall have something to say farther on, 
proposed the health of MM. Edmund About and Got 
in admirable French. Mr Gladstone responded for 
Literature, and paid a great compliment to the French 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

guests by pointedly praising the elocutionary powers 
of the Frenchmen generally, who, he declared, were 
far ahead of Englishmen. He also struck a keynote 
by pathetically saying : 

** It is very difficult and dangerous for any man 
who has cast his lot on the stormy ocean of politics 
to attempt the complete devotion, the entire and 
concentrated application of spirit, which literature in 
its higher senses requires." 

The guests and members were unanimous in praise 
of the entertainment, which was the most notable in 
the history of "The Little Club" up to that period. 

On Saturday, 6th March 1880, the Club was enter- 
tained by the then Lord Mayor of London, Sir Francis 
Wyatt Truscott, at the Mansion House, on which 
occasion an original song was sung, the words being 
from the pen of Dr Bennett, of which I quote the last 
three verses : 

" Think not that these hours are lost. 
Each a gift devises 
To ; to us from their hands are toss'd 

Often Hfe's best prizes. 
Punch is our Medea's brew. 
Here in this we're stewing 
Old jokes young and worn wit new, 
Humours of youth renewing. 

Thought here gets more keen and bright, 

Polished from the ravages 
Of too much use, day and night 
By us clever Savages. 
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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

"And when on our wintry heads, 
Age's snows are hoary, 
When some of us, in cold beds, 

Lie tucked up in glory ; 
Still for many and many a year, 

We'll of them be thinking, 
Many a loving bumper here 
We'll to them be drinking. 

Still with mingling joy and pain, 

We'll repair death's ravages; 
In our praise they'll live again. 
Those old famous Savages. 

"And, as all the table round. 
Bottled up in glory. 
In good spirits still are found 

Undecayed in story 
Through the ages yet to come 
Our ghosts shall be walking. 
When our tongues in death are dumb. 
In theirs we'll be talking. 

Wondrous tales shall haunt each tongue, 

Scorning all time's ravages. 
Of those who this song once sung 
We — the mighty Savages." 

In the early part of 1881 the Club removed from 
the Caledonian Hotel to Lancaster House in the 
Savoy, where there was more accommodation. At 
the dinner on 17th July of that year Sir Philip 
Cunliff Owen, K.C., M.G., C.B., etc., took the 
chair, and presided over a brilliant assembly of guests 
and members. We now come to a red-letter day in the 
history of the famous Club — the twenty-fifth anniver- 
sary dinner on Saturday, 1 1 th of February 1882. This 
dinner was held at Willis's Rooms, and was honoured 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

by the presence of H.R. H. the Prince of Wales. 
One of the most treasured autographs in the Club's 
archives is the signature of his Royal Highness in 
the attendance-book. 

The dinner was fixed for the unusual early hour of 
5 P.M., and about lo o'clock a move was made to the 
Club's own premises in the Savoy, and the Prince 
saw the Savages in their den. Of course, strangers 
were, on this particular occasion, rigorously excluded. 
There the Prince sat for some hours, smoking and 
enjoying the excellent programme of music, recita- 
tions, etc., and subsequently he expressed through 
Sir Francis Knollys his gratification at the reception 
he had met with, and assured his " Brother Savages" 
that he had passed a most agreeable and pleasant 
evening. 

On i6th December 1887 a dinner was given to the 
special correspondents and artists who had been in 
the Egyptian campaign. 

On Wednesday evening, 21st February 1883, Bro. 
Savage, H.R. H. the Prince of Wales, again 
honoured the Club with his presence, and took the 
chair. My friend. Melton Prior, the distinguished 
war artist, delivered a lecture on the Egyptian War, 
illustrated with limelight views of his own drawings. 
The Prince was keenly interested, and that evening 
before he left the Club he was presented with a 
handsome album, containing portraits of all the 
members. That night was not the least memorable 
of many memorable nights in the history of the Club. 
On 2 1 St May 1883 the ranks of the old members 

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were further thinned by the death of Arthur Matthison, 
the dramatic author. He had been ill for a long time, 
and made a trip to the Mediterranean in the hope 
of benefiting his health. His physical infirmities 
induced an irritability of temper which sometimes 
made him a butt for the wit of his brother members, 
and one day, when he was grumbling about something 
or another, James Albery, a fellow-dramatist, said to 
him: "Why, Matthison, old chap, when you get to 
heaven you'll kick up a row with the angels about 
the fit of your halo." 

A little less than a month later, poor, genial Henry 
B. Leigh, followed his friend Matthison, with whom 
he had so often engaged in a passage of arms, into 
the shadows. He died in the early morning of i6th 
June 1883, aged forty-six. He was born in the Strand 
and died in the Strand, and was fond of saying he 
had scarcely ever been out of the Strand. He was 
a Christ's Hospital boy, and not only an acknow- 
ledged wit, but had a peculiar aptitude for versifying. 
His "Carols of Cockayne" are well known, and in 
1 87 1 he issued a little volume of comic poems under 
the title of " Gillot and Goosequill," which was dedi- 
cated to his "attached friend," Godfrey W. Turner. 
In an amusing preface he said : " To the reader's 
probable objection that my verses mean very little, 
I must reply (with all the modesty at my command) 
that I did not mean them to mean much more." I am 
tempted to quote from this volume a verse or two of 
a poem entitled " Broken Toys," in which the inner 
man himself speaks : 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

" Whenever in my tender years 

I broke a toy of any sort, 
I honoured with a flood of tears 

The damaged article of sport. 
Folks told me I was very weak, 

And very like a naughty boy 
To make a streak on either cheek 

For nothing but a broken toy. 

" How oft the fleet and cruel years — 

In bringing age and bringing care — 
Have brought me fitter cause for tears 

Than all my baby sorrows were. 
How many hopes — how many dreams 

'Twas theirs to give and then destroy ; 
How many a past ambition seems 

No better than a broken toy ! 

" I look on Money as a snare, 

On Friendship as an empty name, 
Of Health I utterly despair, 

And soon shall cease to follow Fame. 
Ambition once upon a time 

Was all my passion, all my joy; 
And now — I scribble empty rhyme. 

And dawdle o'er a broken toy." 

One day a member brought into the Club a dusky 
gentleman wearing a turban. The visitor, owing to 
a deficiency of teeth, mumbled very much. Henry S. 
Leigh, who was present, and who was a good linguist, 
was asked by someone what language the Oriental 
was talking. " Why, gum Arabic, of course," promptly 
replied the wit. Leigh was never at a loss for a pun, 
and in repartee he would have been hard to beat. 
He died very suddenly at his chambers in the Strand, 

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and a pathetic incident in connection with his passing 
was that a day or two before his death he was con- 
templating a little trip to the seaside to complete 
some literary work he was engaged upon, and looking 
in at the Club, he signed the attendance-book, and 
added P.P.C. How prophetic those letters were! 
Before he could depart on his trip Death claimed him. 

On iith July 1883, in order to raise funds for a 
Studentship in the Royal College of Music, the Club 
gave a grand costume ball at the Royal Albert Hall. 
Their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of 
Wales, the late Duke of Albany, and several other 
members of the Royal family, were present as guests. 
It was a magnificent success, and the Press throughout 
the country devoted columns to descriptions of the 
great event. The first part of the programme was a 
miscellaneous entertainment by the Savages. The 
ball followed, with an interval at midnight for supper, 
the table being graced by the Royal party. 

In April 1884 the Club sustained another heavy loss 
in the death of Henry J. Byron. He was only forty- 
nine when he died. Byron was one of the wittiest 
men of his age, and if all the jokes he is known to 
have uttered, and all he is alleged to have uttered, were 
put into print, they would make a very big volume. 
I can only spare space for one or two. When he was 
writing the burlesque of The Forty Thieves, Robert 
B rough suggested he should call it The Eighty 
Legs, or The Pianoforte. "No," said Byron; "I 
am calling it The Thirty-nine Thieves^ "Why?" 
asked Brough. 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

•' Owing to the habit I have of taking one off." 
One day he and Barry Sullivan (the well-known 
tragedian), who was deeply marked with the small-pox, 
were walking together, when Byron expressed sur- 
prise that his friend had never appeared in the 
character of Othello. "Well," said Sullivan, "the 
fact is I find it such a confounded nuisance getting 
the make-up out of these indentations," alluding to 
the small-pox marks. 

" Oh, oh ! " cried Byron. " Why, you are the first 
actor I have ever known to object to full pits." 

Whilst Byron was running the Theatre Royal, 
Liverpool, which had financially ruined him, he was 
standine at the box entrance one mornino- lookinsf 
very unwell and gloomy, A friend accosted him. 
" How are you ? " asked the friend, 
" I've got the cobwebs, and feel glum." 
" You should take a dose of castor oil," advised the 
friend ; " that will clear you." 

" I have taken the Theatre Royal (theatre oil), and 
that has done it," answered Byron. 

On another occasion he invited two friends into a 
hostelry to quaff with him. In his own glass was a 

" Here, waiter," he called, " bring two more flies. 
This one isn't big enough to go round." 

His first burlesque, jFra Diavolo, was produced at 
the Strand Theatre on the first night of Miss Swan- 
borough's season, as far back as 1858. It was enor- 
mously successful, and was followed in rapid succession 
by many others, and managers clamoured for Byron's 

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burlesques. He became the racre. He led a very 
busy life for many years, and produced a score or 
more of pieces. Besides his dramatic works he wrote 
at least one novel, and contributed extensively to 
periodical literature. He was a member of the 
Middle Temple, but never practised at the Bar. On 
23rd October 1869 he made his first appearance in 
London as an actor at the Globe Theatre in his own 
drama, Not such a Fool as he Looks. 

In June of 1884 the Club entertained the Maori 
king, Tawhia, who was on an official visit to 
London. 

On 19th January 1885 a prominent member of the 
Club, J. A, Cameron, war correspondent for The 
Standard, was killed in the fighting that took place 
near Matemunch. In the thick of the fight he was 
lying down behind a dead camel making notes for 
his journal, when a bullet struck him full in the fore- 
head. The news of his death was a shock to his 
brother Savages. The melancholy event drew from 
Mr Aaron Watson, journalist, novelist, and poet, 
some pathetic lines, which I venture to think are 
worth reproducing here. 

DEAD IN THE DESERT 
John Alexander Cameron, killed Jan. 19th, 1885 

What ? Dead ? Out there, the sand about your face, 

The hot sun beating on the eyes I knew, 
The Vulture circling round in hope to trace 

The spot where your late comrades bury you. 
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Dead in the desert ; and our other friend 

Beside you dead. What wind was it that blew 
You far away from England, to your end ; 
You, whom we knew ? 

I see a barren space of rolling plain. 

And, far away, a river, streaming through 
Defiles of rock, then stretching out again 

To the horizon that is blank to you ; 
And at my feet, upon a sandy rise, 

Where e'en the brown mimosa never grew, 
I see a white face staring at the skies, — 
Yours, whom we knew. 

Your comrades march along towards the Nile, 
And Afric burns around them. Is it true 

That you are lying stark and dead, the while 

They still march on who marched along with you ? 

You of the manly heart and manful head, 
With eyes as open as the heaven's blue. 

Do you indeed lie in the desert, dead ; 
You, whom we knew ? 

You are not lonely where you lifeless bide ; 

Alas ! too many sleep along with you, 
Where you are lying, all around is dyed 

With blood of sons whom English mothers grew. 
Far off your graves are, where we cannot reach. 

But trust us that our love is strong and true ; 
Hearts mourn, and many tears are dead, for each 
Of those we knew. 

The author of these verses is an old member of the 
Club, and a man of marked personality ; by sheer force 
of character has worked his way to a front position 
in the profession he has chosen, and not only has he 
occupied responsible positions in journalism, includ- 
ing the editorship of The London Echo, but has 

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written charminor verse, besides two or three novels ; 
he has also held with distinction several important 
public positions. 

On 2ist June 1885 the Club gave a "Welcome 
Home " to the newspaper correspondents engaged in 
the Soudan, and many a kindly word was spoken of 
their friend and comrade, poor dead Cameron, whom 
they had left in his lonely grave in the burning desert 
sand. A little more than a year later — that is, on 7th 
July 1886 — the twenty-ninth anniversary dinner was 
held, and the Colonial and Indian representatives at 
the Colonial and Indian Exhibition were entertained 
with the lavish hospitality for which the Club is 
renowned. An excellent entertainment, in the Club's 
best style, followed the dinner, and the visitors ex- 
pressed themselves as highly delighted with their 
reception. 



199 



CHAPTER VII 

A remarkable meeting with a friend of my youth — He utters a prophecy — 
I become tragically interested in a great disaster — I visit the 
Continent — My uncle's fortune — I go out to Davos Platz — I 
suggest many improvements, but am laughed at — Issue a guide- 
book, and am mainly instrumental in getting the improvements 
carried out — I settle in the south of France — My friend the 
Prince — A Gilbertian situation — An extraordinary accident — How 
it affected me — I leave France, and proceed to Switzerland — Am 
appointed correspondent of The Daily News — The story of " John 
Bull's Neighbour in her true Light" — I meet with an accident on 
Mont Blanc — Narrow escape from death while crossing the Simplon 
Pass — I return to England, and take a house in Deal. 

It is necessary that I should now return to my own 
humble self, and relate a remarkable incident, which 
has in it all the elements of romance. In the 
year 1878 I was in Scotland, and had been staying 
for some time at Rothesay. I had much literary 
work on hand, and for a long time contributed a 
weekly column of notes over the pen name of " The 
Rothesay Recluse " to the old Greenock Advertiser. 
In this year I was tragically interested in an event 
which made the year memorable to me, and it was 
prefaced by a coincidence so remarkable that I think it 
is worth recording here. I must premise it by stating 
that when I was a boy waiting for my orders to sail 
for India I was with staying my uncle, a Mr Henry 
Gregson Muddock, a prominent resident in South- 
ampton. He was a bachelor, and a somewhat 

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eccentric man, with rigid notions as to how a youth 
should conduct himself. Riches were his, and it was 
something Hke an artix:le of faith in my family that I 
was to inherit his money. The stepping-stones to 
his fortune had been laid by my father ; what more 
natural therefore, than that the grateful bachelor 
brother should remember the only son of the brother 
who had rendered him signal service, and pushed him 
on the road to wealth? There was one little factor 
however, that was left out of the calculation. It is 
true it wasn't generally known. I knew it, but 
attached no importance to it. It came about in this 
way. 

During my sojourn with him at the time I refer to, 
I struck up an acquaintance with a youth a few years 
older than myself of the name of Archibald Scott. 
His parents were natives of Scotland, I believe, but 
had set up in business in Southampton, where Archi- 
bald was born. Scott and I were soon very friendly, 
and did a good many mad things together, though 
nothing but what healthy, roystering lads might be 
expected to do. These escapades, however, annoyed 
my uncle, with the result that he took a strong dis- 
like to Scott, and not only forbade him coming to the 
house, but gave me strict injunctions to break off 
the connection. In spite of this, I continued to go 
about a good deal with my young companion, unknown, 
of course, to my relative. One day my uncle ac- 
quainted me with the fact that he intended to spend 
the afternoon and evening with some friends from 
Winchester, and enjoined me to be "a good lad"; 



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while the housekeeper, a dear old soul, was instructed 
to see that I didn't get into mischief. In the course 
of the afternoon I sent a message by another servant 
to Scott to come and see me. Needless to say, he 
accepted the invitation, and the good housekeeper 
entertained us with tea and buns. Then, by his 
request, she gave me permission to go out for a little 
while, as my uncle had left word that he would not be 
home until late. Scott proposed that we should spend 
the evening at the local theatre, a proposal I readily 
fell in with ; and as we were swells in our way, being 
in possession of wealth to the extent of half-a-crown 
between us, we purchased pit seats. All unknown to 
us, my uncle with his friends sat in the boxes above 
us, and our presence did not escape him. 

The next day I had a warm time of it. My offence 
of disobedience was considered an unpardonable one. 
Uncle vowed that he would never overlook it ; not a 
shilling of his money should ever come to me. So I 
was assured, but it caused me no concern at that 
time. I was in the heyday of youth ; life was before 
me. What did I want with uncle's money? He 
could keep it. I didn't say so, didn't think so, but I 
felt so. A fortnight later I sailed for India. 

Twenty-two years passed, after many wanderings 
over the world, during which I never had any com- 
munication with my uncle or the companion of my 
youth — Scott. 

One evening at the end of August 1878 my friend, 
the late Mr J. Wilson, who kept the Royal Hotel in 
Rothesay, invited me to dine with him, as he wished 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

to introduce me to a lady and gentleman from Canada, 
who had recently been married, and were spending their 
honeymoon in Scotland. Accordingly I was intro- 
duced to " Mr Scott," who, when he heard my name, 
exclaimed: "Why, bless my life! Is it possible? 
Surely you and I were lads together in Southampton." 

Of course, we compared notes. He, like myself, 
had wandered far and wide, seen life in all its phases, 
and had ultimately settled down in Canada. He had 
left England soon after I did, and it is not a little 
curious he had, in a sense, dogged my steps over the 
world. He had followed me to India, Australia, 
China, Java, Japan, America, and once we had 
actually been in Shanghai at the same time, but 
from the day of parting at Southampton we had 
never met until that memorable night in Rothesay. 
Naturally, he inquired about my uncle. I told him 
that I had never seen him again, but had heard years 
ago that he was married, and had a family. 

"That's bad for you," he remarked, with a laugh; 
"but there," he added, "one never knows. It's the 
unexpected that always happens. Perhaps his money 
will come your way after all." 

My reply to this I remember perfectly well, word 
for word. "My dear fellow," I said, "if my chances 
of heaven are as slender as my chances of my uncle's 
money coming to me, then there is no hope for me." 

Now it is important for me to state that up to that 
evening, when I so unexpectedly met the friend of my 
boyhood again, my uncle had not been in my memory 
for some years. My wanderings had kept me out of 

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touch with my family a good deal, and he had always 
held himself aloof from my branch of it. The last 
news I had of him was through my mother, who, 
referring to him in a letter to me, said : " I heard that 
your uncle Henry had to undergo an operation some 
time ago, but has quite recovered. I hope you keep 
in touch with him, as should he die before you, I have 
no doubt he will leave you his money." 

Two or three days after that pleasant evening Mr 
Scott and his wife left Rothesay, and I have never 
seen them again. They were going to Liverpool, 
whence they were to leave for New York, on their 
way home to Canada. Two days after their departure 
— that is to say, on the 4th of September — I opened 
at luncheon-time the London Daily Telegraph, and 
saw the announcement of the appalling catastrophe 
on the Thames, when, owing to a collision with the 
Bywell Castle, the pleasure steamer Princess Alice was 
cut in halves, whereby 900 people lost their hves. 
With feelings that must be imagined, for they cannot 
be described, I read among the list of the dead the 
name of my uncle, Mr Henry Gregson Muddock, and 
all his family, including his only son. As I was to 
learn subsequently, he was one of the directors of the 
company owning the ill-fated vessel, and being the 
last trip of the season, he was induced to go with her, 
as his children had some cousins from Birmingham 
staying with them, and they wished to give them a 
treat ; but they were all drowned. The most curious 
part remains to be told. My uncle — a careful and 
cautious man — died intestate ; consequently I became 

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his heir-at-law. I was the eldest son of the eldest 
brother. Unfortunately for me, he was at the time 
of his death comparatively poor, having suffered 
disastrous reverses through the failure of two or three 
companies, notably a Russian gas company, in which 
he had been largely interested. Nevertheless, a by 
no means to be despised sum was paid over to me 
when his estate was wound up, although twenty-two 
years before he had vowed I should never touch a 
penny piece of his money. But " L'homme propose, 
et Dieu dispose." 

If the foregoing little narrative, true in every detail, 
had been invented by a novelist, it would have been 
considered improbable ; but how often is it to be 
urg-ed that truth is strang-er than fiction ? Nor is it 
less true that "there's a divinity that shapes our 
ends, rough hew them how we will." 

I may add that my uncle was one of the founders of 
the London Trading Bank, which is now a very 
flourishing concern. The shares he held at the time 
of his death were offered to me for a merely nominal 
sum, but being ill-advised, I declined the offer, as there 
was a liability on them. 

Pending the winding up of my uncle's estate I made 
a tour on the Continent, and visited the battlefields 
of Alsace and Lorraine. I spent over a week at 
Metz, and stayed in the hotel which had been occu- 
pied by Bazaine during the memorable siege. The 
house was still in possession of the landlord who held 
it in Bazaine's time, and he told me many interesting 
stories, many of which reflected very discreditably 

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on the French Marshal. As I can furnish no proof, 
however, of the narrator's accuracy, I refrain from 
recording them. From other sources of information, 
however, I had every reason to think that Bazaine 
was quite unfitted for his position, and many errors 
of judgment on his part paved the way for the final 
disaster. I also spent some days at Strasbourg, and 
made the acquaintance of the old Frenchman who 
had charore of the watch-tower of the matrnificent 
Cathedral. He had stuck to his post all through the 
terrible bombardment, and he assured me that the 
Germans deliberately made the Cathedral a mark for 
their artillery, and did their utmost to destroy it. 
It will be remembered that the Cathedral was seriously 
damaged, and the organ, one of the most wonderful 
instruments of its kind in the world, was practically 
destroyed. It was an act of unpardonable vandalism, 
more in accordance with traditions of the Middle Ages 
than of the troops of a highly civilised nation in the 
latter half of the nineteenth century. Strasbourg at 
the time of the war was considered a place of great 
military strength. Yet it succumbed ; but to-day it 
is probably absolutely impregnable. The Germans 
have resolved that Alsace and Lorraine shall never 
again pass out of their possession, but it is doubtful 
if there is a Frenchman living who doesn't dream of 
the day when the proud flag of France will once again 
float over those fair provinces. 

I subsequently wandered pretty extensively through 
Germany, including the Black F'orest ; paid a flying 
visit to Russia, and returned home to receive my 

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money. About the end of 1879, having entered into 
a literary contract which required a good deal of 
attention, I was anxious to spend the winter in some 
quiet place, and by the merest chance made my way 
to Davos Platz in Switzerland, and while there I 
became acquainted with John Addington Symonds, 
who was building himself a villa in that beautiful valley, 
which he seemed to think he had discovered and 
owned. Symonds was a strange man, saturated with 
Italian and French literature, and holding, as it 
seemed to me, a rather poor opinion of the literature 
of other countries. He was a confirmed invalid, and 
told me that Davos was the only place that, so far as 
his experience went, offered him any hope of recovery. 
It is testimony to the salubrity of the beautiful Davos 
Valley that he lived as long as he did. When I met 
him he was exceedingly ill, and I did not think he 
would see another year out. But he lived for several 
years, and literature was the gainer. When I first 
knew Davos it was a very primitive place compared 
with what it is at the present day. The drainage 
was as bad as it could be ; there was a poor water 
supply, and the River Landwasser wound through the 
valley like a huge serpent, and when the snows melted 
it overflowed its banks, turning the bed of the valley 
into a swamp, thus producing miasmatic exhalations, 
which necessarily detracted from the value of the 
place as a health resort. Davos was reached from 
two points on the Zurich and Chur Railway. The 
shorter of the two was from Landquart, whence a 
seven-hour diligence or sleigh journey was necessary. 

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The other was from the terminus at Chur, and from 
there the journey up to the valley occupied about nine 
hours. For the healthy and strono- either route was 
pleasant and interesting enough, but in the winter- 
time exceedingly trying owing to the intense cold. 
For invalids it was an ordeal that occasionally led to 
fatal attacks of haemorrhage. Recognising as I did 
the magnificent possibilities of this Alpine station, and 
becoming convinced that it offered to the victim of 
the terrible scourge, consumption, a chance of better 
health, if not an absolute cure, I resolved to try and 
make it better known to my countrymen, as well as to 
induce the authorities to render it more accessible, and 
to carry out certain improvements. I suggested drain- 
age, a straightening of the river, an adequate water 
supply, and finally a railway. In this I was backed up 
by a most enterprising gentleman, Mr j. C. Coester, 
who, an invalid himself, had done much for the valley, 
and was the owner of the Hotel Belvedere, which 
catered entirely for English-speaking people. My 
suofSfestions met with ridicule. I was told that 
drainage wasn't necessary ; that as the river was, 
so it had been for hundreds of years ; that a railway 
would be too costly, and would never pay. I there- 
upon resolved to publish a book, and tell the truth 
about Davos. 1 must not omit to state there was a 
capital little book on Davos already in existence. It 
had been written by a Mrs MacMorhuul, a charming 
and clever lady, who knew the valley well. But she 
had devoted too much of it to botany, and too little 
to the subjects which it was desirable that the invalid 

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and non-scicntific visitor should know. The tide of 
the book was "Davos Platz " by " On(' who knows 
it." 1 had it from the hps of Mrs MacMorland her- 
self, however, that her work had fallen far short of 
her anticipations in point of sale. vShe and her 
husband had lived in the valley for a long time, and 
were greatly int(;r(:st(,-d in its welfare. To the end I 
had in view, I associated myself with Mr Philip 
Holland, a clever and well-known analytical chemist, 
and a Fellow of the Chemical Society. lie had a 
large laboratory in Manchester, and was the public 
analyst for the borough of Southport. This gentle- 
man came out to Davos, and we began by analysing 
the air by Angus Smith's process, taking samples 
from the hotels, the bedrooms of the patients, from 
the mountain-sides, from the banks of the river — every 
conceivable point, in fact, that was likely to furnish us 
with data^ — and we proved conclusively that away from 
the village the air was absolutely pure ; in the village 
it was i)olluted. We next subjected the water, and 
various articles of food, particularly milk, to analysis, 
with unsatisfactory results, so far as milk and water 
were concerned. We spent a portion of that summer 
in the valley, and returned to it the following winter. 
In due course our book was launched, and I did not 
hesitate to severely criticise the lack of drainage and 
other easily remedied defects of Davos. The work 
was extensively and favourably reviewed by the 
leading papers in the United Kingdom, and it is 
hardly an exaggeration to say that it staggered the 
good people of Davos Platz. They knew to what 
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an extent they were dependent upon English and 
American money, principally English, and they were 
afraid my strictures would turn the flow of gold 
away. The medical profession too was stirred, and I 
received scores of letters from doctors throughout the 
country. But the funniest part of it was, two anony- 
mous communications bearing the Davos postmark 
were sent to me — one written in very bad English, 
and the other in fairly good French, but each 
threatened me with assassination if I dared to set 
foot in Davos again. Thereupon I promptly betook 
myself thither, and caused my presence to be widely 
known. But my friends, the anonymous letter 
writers, must have thought better of their threats, 
and I had no opportunity of testing my markmanship 
with a very neat little revolver I carried solely as a 
means of self-protection. 

My friend Coester informed me that he was trying 
to persuade the people to take a sensible view of my 
criticism, and instead of being angry, carry out my 
suggestions as to drainage to begin with. His per- 
suasions prevailed ; two years later I had the satis- 
faction of issuing a new edition of my guide and in 
the preface I wrote : 

" In the first edition of this Guide we felt called 
upon to severely criticise the want of drainage in the 
village, it is with considerable satisfaction therefore, 
that we now feel ourselves in a position to announce 
that our criticism has had weight, and we gladly bear 
testimony to the energetic spirit that has been 

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displayed to do away with the cause of what was 
readily acknowledged to be a just complaint. From 
the plans that we publish with this edition, the public 
will see that a most elaborate system of drainage has 
been carried out regardless of cost," 

In due course the water supply followed, then the 
winding river was canalised, and finally, a few years 
later a railway was built from Landquart right into 
the valley, and before it was opened to the public I 
was privileged to travel over the whole route on an 
engine. There is one other little matter in connection 
with Davos which I think I am justified in mentioning. 
I resolved that my country people should be attended 
by an English medical man, and I prevailed upon my 
friend, Dr William R. Huggard, M.A., M.D., 
F.R.C. P., London, to go to Switzerland. He, by 
the way is, not an Englishman, but an Irishman ; as I 
do not wish to do an injustice to poor old Ireland, 
I gladly mention this fact. Dr Huggard duly quali- 
fied for the Swiss diploma in Geneva during my 
residence there, and ultimately took up his residence 
in Davos. That is more than twenty years ago, and 
I venture to say, what Dr Huggard cannot say him- 
self, he has been a boon to the place. As I write, he 
is still practising there, and also has the honour to 
represent His Majesty Edward VII. in the capacity 
of Consul. Long may he have health and strength 
to carry on his work, and gladden and comfort those 
who seek his advice. It was while I was interesting 
myself in Davos that efforts were being made to 

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develop the most beautiful and glorious part of the 
Engadine known as the Maloja. An eccentric and 
wealthy Belgian Count had been in the habit of hunt- 
ing there ; suddenly he conceived the idea of building 
a hotel on a gigantic scale, and he engaged the 
services of a medical friend of mine to superintend all 
the sanitary and other arrangements. The plans were, 
in the first instance, I believe, designed by the Count 
himself, and the building he proposed to erect was a 
palace. The bedrooms alone numbered something 
like five hundred, and the total cost of the place, 
including purchase of land, would have been some- 
thing like ^2,000,000 sterling. Needless to say, 
these plans had to be very considerably modified, 
but still the Count was determined to have some of 
his ideas put into practical shape. He and his wife 
spent three or four years there, winter and summer, 
during the progress of the work, and I paid many 
visits to my friend. The undertaking proved dis- 
astrous to the poor Count. His wife, owing to 
anxiety and exposure to all weathers, was taken very 
ill, and died on her way to Belgium. The Count was 
financially ruined, and the failure of his ambitious 
projects broke his heart. Nevertheless, the gigantic 
hotel was opened, and I attended the inaugural 
ceremony. The house was heated by what was 
then a novel arrangement, hot air being conducted 
t?o every room by means of pipes let into the walls. 
The air was supplied from the basement, where there 
was a huge boiler and an engine, the latter driving 
the air over an electrical machine, which was said to 



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ozonise it. The second night of my stay it was 
bitterly cold, and on retiring to my bedroom I turned 
a tap to let in the hot air, and went to bed. Some time 
afterwards I awoke with a sense of horrible oppression, 
and felt I was suffocating. It appeared that owing 
to some defect in the pipe foul gas had been coming 
into my room mixed with hot air, and it was within 
an ace of cutting short my career. The following 
year I was again at the Maloja, and met the late 
Max Miiller, a giant of intellect, yet one of the most 
charming and modest men I have ever known. 

Simultaneously with my book on Davos I prepared 
the material for a guide-book to Switzerland, and in 
pursuance of my plan practically tramped over all the 
country. I crossed every pass both in winter and in 
summer, ascended many of the mountains, wandered 
through the most secluded valleys. With an immense 
mass of notes I went to the south of France, acquired 
possession of an ideal little villa at Villefranche over- 
looking the beautiful bay of the same name, and there 
spent two and a half happy and delightful years. I 
prepared my book for publication, making frequent 
journeys to England in the meanwhile, and keeping in 
touch with my brother Savages. 

Adjoining the grounds of my little residence was a 
superb mansion — a palace, in fact — that had long 
been without a tenant. It owed its erection to a 
wealthy hotel proprietor in Nice, but he had found it 
too costly to live in. A few months after I had entered 
on possession of my villa, the mansion was bought by 
Prince Nicholas d'Oldenburg, cousin of the then 

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Czar of Russia. One morning, to my intense astonish- 
ment, I received a request from the Prince, asking me 
if I would allow the necessary deeds and agreements 
to be signed in my house, and if in my "capacity of 
an English literary gentleman " I would witness them. 
Appreciating the compliment, as well as the honour, 
he paid me, I readily assented, and a little army of 
notaries, witnesses, and hangers-on tramped into my 
drawingr-room, where the business was carried throug-h. 
Prince d'Oldenburor and I from that moment became 
friends, and our friendship strengthened as time went 
on. His wife, who was a Countess in her own right, 
and his two young daughters, were charming ; while 
the Prince himself, a delicate and nervous man, was 
one of the most polished gentlemen it has ever been 
my good fortune to be acquainted with, nor have I 
ever had a more sincere, devoted, or truer friend. I 
was his confidant, and to a considerable extent his 
adviser. He was very fond of a practical joke, and 
on one occasion placed me in a position which would 
have made a capital situation in a Gilbert and Sullivan 
opera. I accompanied him to Marseilles on a matter 
of business which he was anxious to have carried out 
by a German friend of mine, a commission agent who 
had formerly been in business in London, but married 
a Marseilles lady, and had taken up his residence in 
that town. The Prince, I may mention, was a 
wealthy man, and did everything with a lavish hand. 
We left Nice by the midnight train in a special saloon 
carriage, which, much against my wish, he insisted on 
having ; and though we were only going for two or 

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three days, he took luggage enough for a voyage round 
the world. His valet accompanied him, and one of 
his body servants came to attend to my humble 
wants. 

We arrived in Marseilles in the morning, and the 
Prince asked me if I would mind riding with him in 
one of the common fiacres plying for hire. In the 
meantime the servants had been sent on with the 
luggage, and had been instructed to secure rooms for 
us at the Grand Hotel de Marseilles, and as I subse- 
quently learned, they had also received other instruc- 
tions in order that the Prince might carry out his little 
joke. Having partaken of some coffee at the buffet 
at the station, my friend and I jumped into a fiacre, 
and drove off to the hotel. Arrived there, he quickly 
threw open the door, sprang out, and extended his 
hand to me. Knowing his extreme politeness, this 
did not strike me as being extraordinary ; but as we 
entered the magnificent hall of the hotel there was a 
row of white-gloved flunkies on each side, while the 
chef de reception in evening dress approached me, 
and bowing low, addressed me as " Monseigneur le 
Prince." I said quickly: " You are mistaken. lam 
not the Prince." Then up spoke my friend, and in 
gentle reprimand remarked : " Monseigneur, you do 
carry this little joke of yours too far. Please spare 
my feelings on this occasion." Then to the chef: 
" Show the Prince at once to his rooms." 

Protest on my part seemed useless. The army of 
flunkeys bowed almost to the ground ; the chef led 
the way up the flight of broad stairs to the second 

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floor, and throwing open a door, revealed a magnifi- 
cently furnished sitting-room. Whereupon the Prince 
exclaimed indignantly : " Oh, this is far too high up 
for Monseigneur ; besides, that is an inferior room." 
The chef was agitated ; he made profound apologies, 
marched us down to the first floor, and bowed us into 
a costly suite of rooms, which the Prince said he 
thought might do. I again attempted to let the 
chef understand that I was not the Prince ; but with a 
splendid assumption of indignation my friend held up 
his hands, and prayed of me not to make him look fool- 
ish again. Then in an aside to the puzzled chef he 
explained that I was eccentric, and much given to 
practical joking. When we were alone he laughed 
heartily, and notwithstanding my protests, declared 
that I should be the Prince while we were there. He 
had instructed his servants to tell the hotel people that 
I was certain to try and impose upon them by pre- 
tending that I was not the Prince, but they were to 
pay me every deference and respect. 

I had previously written to my German friend, 
inviting him to lunch with us at our hotel, and as 
I was not sure of the time of arrival when I wrote, 
I said I would call at his place of business, and 
convey him back. Prince Nicholas knew this, and 
reminded me that I had better go. He would order 
the luncheon, he said. I descended the stairs, ran the 
gauntlet of the bowing flunkeys, and on gaining the 
pavement, beheld a magnificent carriage, and my ser- 
vant, in uniform, holding the door open for me. 
When I had entered, he mounted on the box beside 

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the driver, and I was driven to the commission agent's 
office in a dingy business quarter of the town, and 
when he saw the magnificent carriage, he was over- 
powered. However, I persuaded him to enter ; and 
we drove back to the hotel ; and there were the chef 
and his flunkies bowing low, while passers-by stopped 
to see who the great personage was who had alighted 
from the carriage and was received with so much 
homage. But a greater surprise was in store for me 
and my German friend. The table in the private 
sitting-room of the suite had been laid with a 
sumptuousness that set the German's eyes agog. 
Silver, flowers, and fruit were in lavish profusion, 
while round each plate, in accordance with Russian 
fashion, were something like a dozen glasses of assorted 
sizes. A basket containing a dozen of champagne 
stood in one corner of the room, and another basket 
of white and red wine near it. Three solemn-looking 
waiters in livery, and the valet, bowed as we entered. 
The German was rather appalled. He was a very 
plain, unostentatious man, in the habit of taking his 
lunch about one o'clock at a cheap restaurant, and 
tempting his appetite with nothing more delicate than 
sauerkraut and sausage, washed down with a bock of 
lager beer. Of course, I had to occupy the chair the 
Prince should have taken. He sat on my right, the 
guest on the left, while the valet paid special attention 
to me. The Prince was a very small and delicate 
eater, and scarcely ever drank wine. Yet dish after 
dish was brought in, and in most cases sent away un- 
touched. The numerous glasses were filled with wine, 

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and remained filled. Once or twice when the German 
addressed me as Monsieur Muddock the Prince 
affected to be very indignant, and expressed surprise 
that the guest should forget himself so. 

The farce — and a costly farce it was — came to an 
end in about three hours. It was all very comical, 
and I can hardly think of it now without a smile ; but 
the smile is checked as I recall how my dear and 
eccentric friend, Prince Nicholas d'Oldenburg, within 
four years of that day lay dead in a hotel in Geneva, 
his death accelerated by a cruel domestic blow, which 
broke his heart. A kinder, more charitable, more 
ofenerous heart never beat in human breast. 

It is not a little curious that throughout my life my 
movements seem to have been influenced by some 
sudden and unexpected event ; and my departure 
from the south oi' France, where I had resided for 
nearly two and a half years, was determined by a 
peculiar and tragic incident. 

It was the Jour de I'an. I had but recently 
returned from England, where I had been on a visit, 
bringing with me a quantity of furniture and pictures 
for my house, as I had made up my mind to settle 
down for some time at anyrate. As most people 
know, New Year's Day in France is a great day. 
Visits are exchanged, and presents given and re- 
ceived. All through the fore part of the day I was 
kept busy receiving visitors, and in the afternoon a 
friend, who had been invited to dine with me, arrived, 
and he and I sat on the verandah enjoying a cigar 
and the beauty of the land and sea scape. The 

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weather was perfect, the garden portion of my 
grounds, which consisted of a series of rocky terraces 
on a hillside, was a blaze of colour with roses and 
other flowers. Some Italian workmen were blasting 
the rock away in a part of the grounds in order to 
make a carriage drive from the road to the house. 
Suddenly there was a commotion among them; I saw 
them drop their tools and rush down to the road. 

"What is the matter?" I called to one. 

" A gentleman has shot himself and a lady," came 
back the answer. 

My friend and I rushed out, and we found a man 
kneeling over a handsomely dressed woman, who was 
lying on her back, unconscious and terribly injured, 
while blood was dripping from a wound in his head 
and falling on her clothes. It seemed to confirm the 
report that he had shot the woman and himself. 

I must explain that the road opposite my dwelling 
was bordered by a row of formidable cacti bushes ; for 
the land thereabouts broke away precipitously, and 
plunged in a series of broken cliffs to the sea, two 
hundred feet or so below. On questioning the man, 
I soon learned the facts. He turned out to be a Mr 
Cross, of the well-known Crosses of Bolton, Lanca- 
shire. The lady was the wife of his intimate friend, an 
officer of the Guards Blue, and the party had been 
staying at Monte Carlo. Mr Cross had, I believe, 
recently come into a large fortune through the death 
of his father. A buggy had been built in Nice 
to his order, and a pair of magnificent cobs purchased 
in England. They had arrived the day before, and 

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Paaes from an Adventurous Life 

in order to try them Mr Cross, accompanied by the wife 
of his friend, the friend being prevented by some reason, 
which I forget, from going, was driving to Nice, and 
had promised to be back in time for dinner. On 
getting near my house the spirited cobs took fright 
at a bullock dray laden with stones jolting along the 
road. Tearing madly along, they dashed into the 
cacti hedge, the impact jerking Mr Cross and the lady 
out on to the rocks ; while the horses and buggy 
whirled down the cliffs, and were pulverised. 

Seeing that the case was serious, I instructed the 
workmen to carry the lady into my house ; but Prince 
d'Oldenburg, who had arrived on the scene with a 
Russian doctor who was staying with him, suggested 
that as he had more accommodation in his chateau, it 
would be better for the injured people to be taken 
there. To this, of course, I assented. Then special 
messengers were sent post-haste for surgeons, as the 
Russian doctor said a serious operation on the lady 
would be necessary. I myself sat for some time by 
her bedside, filing the rings off her fingers, as the hand 
was much injured and greatly swollen, the rings being 
embedded in the fiesh. Mr Cross, who with heroic 
fortitude had his own injury temporarily attended to 
took every means possible to ensure his friend's wife 
having the benefit of all the skill money could secure. 
A messenger was despatched in one o{ the Prince's 
carriages to Monte Carlo to brines back the husband, 
and a celebrated German specialist in Berlin was 
telegraphed for. In the meantime, however, the 
unfortunate lady was operated upon, and the doctors 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

declared that her life depended upon absolute quietude, 
and that it would be dan^^crous to move her for many 
weeks, unless it was done there and then. This was 
very awkward for Prince d'Oldenburg. The Russian 
Christmas was near, and he expected a large number 
of guests. Therefore to have an invalid in the house, 
big as it was, whose life depended upon quietude, was 
unfortunate. Mr Cross endeavoured to obtain a house 
near by, but failed. Then in despair he came to me. 
The lady could be carried from the room in the 
Prince's house where she was lying through a gap 
in the boundary fence without any difficulty, and it 
was only a matter of yards. He offered me a price, 
and under the circumstances what could I do but 
accept.-* In a few hours I had cleared out with all 
my belongings, and found myself in a Nice hotel, 
wondering what I should do and where I should go 
to. In a few days I had resolved to proceed to 
Geneva in the interest of my guide-books. When I 
arrived there, the town was buried in snow, and 
everything frozen. It was a violent change from the 
warmth and sunlight of the south of France. But I 
was used to sudden changes, and, moreover, had made 
up my mind that as soon as possible I would proceed 
to Southern Italy ; but here again my movements were 
influenced by chance. 

I had been in Geneva two or three weeks, when 
one evening I entered a caf(^ with a view to dining. 
A gentleman was seated at a table having his dinner, 
and as I entered he stared at me, I at him. Then he 
rose, and greeted me with exclamations of surprise. 

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We were brother Savages, brother writers. He was 
the late William Westall, the novelist and journalist. 
I joined him at dinner. He had been living in 
Geneva for a long time as Swiss correspondent of 
The Daily JVews. but was leaving in a day or two, and 
had been asked by Mr (afterwards Sir John) Robinson 
to try and find somebody to take up his position. 
" Write this very night," he counselled. "You'll get 
the appointment." I wrote. My application was 
favourably considered, and so I served T/if Daily 
Nezvs as their Swiss correspondent for something like 
six years. During all that time my relations with 
the late Sir John Robinson were oi' the most agree- 
able kind ; for he was a courteous gentleman, and 
recognised in a most liberal way the efforts of those 
who served him well. When I resigned my position 
(owing to circumstances I shall presently relate) in 
the summer oi 1SS7. ho wrote me a charming letter, 
from which I permit myself to quote the following 
passage : — 

" I wish you every success in your new sphere, but 
I am afraid we shall suffer by the change." 

That part of my life spent in Switzerland was a very 
happy one, save for the sadness inseparable from the 
loss of my eldest sister and many dear friends. I 
secured a quaint, old residence at a place called 
Grange Canal, on the Chamouni Road, and about a 
mile and a half from the town. Much correspondence 
passed between me and my friend, Prince d'Oldenburg, 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

and while I was still in Geneva he died at the Hotel 
de Russie in that town. The causes that led to his 
being in Geneva were pitiable and sad, but I am not 
at liberty to make them known. 

When I first went to Geneva there was a large 
colony of Russian refugees, mostly Nihilists, and I 
made the acquaintance of many of them. It was 
through this acquaintance I gathered the material for 
my Russian story, which I called " Stormlight," now 
published by Ward & Lock. I may mention that 
some of my generous critics, who find criticism so 
easy, spoke of the improbabilities of the story, but, as 
a matter of fact, most of the incidents arc strictly true. 
The materials were supplied to me by my Russian 
acquaintances. 

Among my friends in Geneva were Mr Auldgo, 
then the British Consul, who some time in the thirties 
made an ascent of Mont Blanc, and published a book 
about it ; and the late James Henry Skene, who saw 
much service during the Crimean War, and gave his 
experiences in two volumes, " With Lord Stratford in 
the Crimea." He was the father-in-law of the then 
Archbishop of York, the late Archbishop Thomson. 
Mr Skene had been H.M. Consul at Aleppo for many 
years, and had lived among the Arabs as a sheik for 
a long time. He was a brilliant scholar, a remarkable 
linguist, and a charming man. His brother, the late 
William Skene, was Historiographer Royal for Scot- 
land. My friend's career had been an extraordinary 
one. In his childhood he had met Sir Walter Scott, 
and preserved a vivid recollection of him. He had 

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travelled most extensively through Syria, Turkey, 
Persia, and Palestine, and given to the world a most 
interesting volume entitled " Rambles in Syrian 
Deserts." During the Crimean War he was on the 
staff of Lord Stratford, and had some exciting times. 
He was severely wounded in a skirmish, and the wound 
troubled him to the day of his death. He married 
for his first wife a Greek lady of great beauty, and his 
eldest daughter Zoe became the wife of Archbishop 
Thomson. Skene was a most accomplished man. 
He was a thorough Hebrew scholar, and knew all the 
dialects of Arabic, and he was possibly the best living 
authority of his day on Arab horses. He had a 
passion for horses, and maintained that the Arab was 
the finest horse in the world. There were not many 
subjects he could not converse about, and withal he 
was a charming singer and excellent musician. He 
had been ailing for some time before his death, but I did 
not think his end was so near. I helped to nurse him, 
and was with him when he died. I followed him to the 
grave, and need I say his death was a great blow to me. 
During my residence in Switzerland the Germans 
annexed portions of the island of New Guinea, and 
the adjacent islands of New Britain and New Ireland, 
owing to the fatuous policy of Lord Carnarvon and 
Lord Derby. From personal knowledge I was en- 
abled to supply my paper with a long descriptive 
article about those islands, which appeared in the 
issue for 29th December 1884. When the Fenians 
attempted to destroy the Houses of Parliament and 
the Tower, the detectives could not discover how the 

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dynamite which was used had been procured. I was 
credibly informed by a PoHsh friend of mine, who 
was much behind the scenes, that it was conveyed to 
London from Switzerland by two women, who carried 
it in their bustles, and this fact I made known through 
the columns of The Daily News. Up to that period 
there was little or no difficulty in procuring dynamite 
in Switzerland, but afterwards the laws regulating its 
sale were made more stringent. 

I am now going to reveal a little secret ; it is not a 
State secret, nor is the revelation likely to disturb the 
peace of mind of any of his Majesty's liege subjects. 
Nevertheless, what I have to tell may be read with 
some amusement and interest. 

While I was resident in Geneva two books were 
issued by the famous Paris house of Charpentier et 
Cie. One was called " Les Va-Nu-Pieds de Londres," 
by Hector France ; the other " La Rue a Londres," 
by MM. Jules Valles and A. Lan9on. The first named 
was published at 3 francs 50 centimes, the second 
at 100 francs. "La Rue a Londres" was beauti- 
fully got up and wonderfully illustrated, but, of course, 
its price prevented it running into a large sale. It 
was, however, extensively quoted. The other was 
not illustrated ; it was intended for the masses, and 
the masses read it. Both these books, as their titles 
imply, dealt with England, and were supposed to be 
true pictures of English life ; they were written in 
a spirit which nowadays seems incomprehensible. 
Hector France's book was rabid with hatred against 
English women, English laws, institutions, habits, 
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manners, customs — evervthinor that was EnoHsh ; and 
the writer, who was himself a purveyor of filth, wrote 
in the most filthy language. Moreover, his so-called 
descriptions of the life he pretended to describe were 
absolutely false. But the French Press believed 
them, and they were made the text for violent abuse 
of England ; and not the French Press only, but that 
of Switzerland, Italy, Spain, Germany. I read these 
books and the articles of comment on them with a 
sense of anger and burning indignation. Wherever 
I went I was almost sure to hear them discussed, 
and the discussion was never favourable to England. 
"Horrible London," Horrible England," "The 
beastly English" (Ces betes d' Anglais), these were 
phrases that were constantly ringing in my ears. 
The blood in my veins used to dance, and I longed 
to say something in return. The question was, how, 
and through what medium to say it. A fugitive 
article or two in a paper or magazine would have 
been useless. But my opportunity came at last, as 
it generally has come, sooner or later, throughout my 
life. The very plausible French gentleman. Max 
O'Rell, had issued an English translation of his 
"John Bull and His Island," the translation being 
specially toned down for the English market. Of 
course, it was amusincr, althoup-h it contained a o^ood 
many cheap sneers. England was laughing at it. 
Monsieur Max O'Rell, from an obscure schoolmaster, 
had suddenly become a person of importance ; but it is 
needless to say the English people who were pouring 
out such lavish praise of O'Rell's pamphlet had not 

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read it in the original, and knew nothing whatever of 
the books to which I have alluded, nor of the Anglo- 
phobia then raging on the Continent. One day 
I saw an editorial announcement in an English 
literary weekly that Mr Somebody was writing an 
answer to "John Bull and His Island." Instantly I 
asked myself : " Why shouldn't I write an answer?" 
I knew France, I was living on the Continent, and 
I had material for any number of answers. But let 
me make it clear that Max O'Rell's work was only a 
raison detre for mine. I wanted to answer Hector 
France and Jules Valles, and the thousand and one 
articles that had appeared in the Continental papers. 
As I could see no just cause or impediment why I 
should not produce a counterblast, I at once set to 
work with the energy I could always command when 
there was work to be done, and the result was there 
came into existence "John Bull's Neighbour in her 
true Light," by a " Brutal Saxon." As evidence of 
how short-sighted English publishers can sometimes 
be, most of those in London turned up their noses 
at my book without ever seeing the MS. I was 
assured on all sides there would be no demand for it. 
Curiously enough, Max O'Rell's own publishers. Field 
& Tuer of The Leadenhalle Presse, made me a definite 
offer without seeing a line of the copy. They would 
pay down £2^, and more if a certain number were 
sold. I declined it, and wrote at once to Wyman & 
Sons, who were the printers of my guide-books, for 
an estimate. I received it, accepted, and wired them 
instructions to print 25,000 copies with all possible 

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speed, and secure so many pages of advertisements. 
Back came a letter urging me to be advised by them, 
who knew so much better than I did, and not waste 
my money by printing any such number, as they were 
sure the book would not sell, and they did not want a 
good customer of theirs to lose money. In a weak 
moment I allowed myself to be influenced by their 
arguments, and ordered 10,000. As a matter of 
fact, with the first machining they only ran off five. 
The book was to be published on a Wednesday, I 
think, in March of 1884. As I intended to be in 
London on that day, I left Geneva by the night train 
on the previous Friday, intending to spend two or 
three days in Paris with some friends. When I 
arrived early on the Saturday morning at the house 
of my friends in the Avenue du Trocadero, the 
concierge said : " There is a depeche for you, 
Monsieur Muddock. You'll find it in your bedroom." 
I rushed upstairs, tore open the telegram, and read 
the following : — 

Large orders for book coming in. Please send 
us instructions. Wymans. 

My state of mind may be imagined. It was Satur- 
day, a short day in London. Sunday intervened, and I 
knew that any failure to supply the orders on the fixed 
date of publication would ruin the book, and that to 
bind twenty or thirty thousand copies would take 
several days. I was too late for the morning train to 
England, but I left Paris by the night mail. On 

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arriving in London on Sunday morning I drove off to 
Mr Edward Wyman's house in Russell Square without 
even waiting to wash up or change my travelling dress. 
I found my friend about proceed to church with his 
family. However, he remained behind, and I was in- 
formed that large orders had been received from Smith 
& Sons, Hamilton & Co., and other firms, subject to 
delivery early on date of publication. " But," added 
Mr Wyman, " it is impossible for us to do it." I am 
afraid my answer rather shocked and startled him. I 
reminded him that any failure on the part of his firm 
would mean an action at law, and possibly swinging 
damages against them. " There is no such thing as im- 
possibility in this case," I added. " The work must be 
done." The emphasis I laid on the " must " caused him 
to open his eyes. "But there isn't time," he urged. 
" You must make time," I responded. This time the 
emphasis was on the "make." 

Poor Mr Wyman ! I much fear I disturbed his 
Sunday rest, spoilt his dinner, and ruffled his temper. 
But — well, the orders were executed. In a few 
days all London, all England, was clamouring for the 
book. Edition after edition was poured from the 
press, and within three weeks "A new and enlarged 
Edition " was issued, and contained an advertisement 
of Field & Tuer's, announcing the " Forty-eighth 
Thousand" of "John Bull and His Island." Other 
advertisements were also secured at a big price, but 
by an act of stupidity were accepted without any 
stipulations as regards extra pay for extra editions. 
Of course, there was a strong desire and a natural 

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one to know who the " Brutal Saxon " was, and many 
were the guesses made. The " Paris correspondent " 
of The Manchester Guardia7i blundered egregiously in 
certain statements he sent to his journal from Paris ; 
and a would-be clever scribe on the staff of The New- 
castle Chronicle blundered even worse, and they both 
were pilloried in a new preface to the book. Through 
an agent the rights of translation were sold for 
France, Germany, Italy, Spain and Russia. A 
French author bought the French rights. He had 
the book printed, and all ready for issue, when down 
swooped his Government, and stopped it. A large 
edition was issued in Germany, and tickled the 
Germans immensely. 

In the course of three or four weeks I returned to the 
Continent. I found the French papers pouring out 
their vials of wrath on the head of " A Brutal Saxon," 
and one evening as I sat with some friends outside 
the Cafe de la Paix in Paris, two excited Frenchmen 
were discussing "John Bull's Neighbour." That 
very day either Le Temps or Debats had printed a 
long editorial comment, and I heard one of the 
French gentlemen exclaim : 

** Sacre nom Dieu, if I knew who ' A Brutal 
Saxon ' was I'd shoot him." 

I felt inclined to put him to the test, but my friends 
prevailed. The stir that little book made, practically 
all over Europe, was remarkable ; and those wise- 
acres who predicted dismal failure for it must have 
felt rather small as they saw huge edition after edition 
called for. I am not going to state how much money 

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was made oat of it, but author, publishers, and 
printers were quite satisfied. 

I followed "John Bull's Neighbour " with "The 
Siege of London by Posteritas." The French Govern- 
ment did allow a translation of that in France ; it was 
published by Marpon & Flamarion. The sale of 
the work in England fell very far short of its pre- 
cursor, but it made a profit of several hundred pounds. 

Of course, there were many little exciting incidents 
in my Swiss experiences, but I need only inflict one 
or two on my readers. I had been up Mont Blanc 
one day with a party, when we were overtaken by 
night and bad weather, and we were imprisoned for 
many hours at the Grand Mulets. So terrific was the 
wind that we expected every moment the little hut 
would have been hurled from the rocks to which it 
was anchored, and so intense and awful was the cold 
that the stronger ones of the party had to pommel 
the weaker ones, and fight with them, to prevent 
them sleeping. As soon as there was sufficient day- 
light we resolved to make an attempt to go down. 
My guide led, I was second on the rope, but it was 
impossible to see a dozen yards ahead on account 
of the snow. In crossing a crevasse the snow bridge 
broke under me, and I hung suspended by the rope 
over an awful chasm. I managed to scramble out, 
but either in falling or getting out the notched end 
of the piolet I was carrying pierced my thigh ; but 
though I lost a great deal of blood I did not know 
I was wounded until we had cleared the glaciers, 
and began to thaw under the influence of hot spiced 

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wine in the Pierre Pointue inn. I tramped through 
the forest, however, down to my hotel in Chamouni, 
and in a few days was all right, but the scar remains 
to remind me of the adventure. 

On another occasion, accompanied by a young 
American gentleman, and a guide and porter, I set 
off for a place known as the Jar din — the ordinary 
route to which is simply a little promenade, and a 
favourite with ladies. But there is an alternative 
route, which presents more difficulties. The glacier 
of the Montanvert is left, and a steep, stone-swept 
couloir climbed. Thence the lower slope of the 
Aiguille Vert is crossed. While my little party were 
on this slope the snow, which was very bad, began 
to move, and we were carried down on a slow-moving 
avalanche, fortunately for an inconsiderable distance, 
but were only saved from being swept over a precipice 
with a drop of about 500 feet, by some rocks which 
cropped up in our way. 

I had another narrow squeak when crossing the 
Simplon in the depth of winter from Italy. At 
Berisal, the last post hamlet before Brigue, the open 
sleigh was changed for a wheeled diligence, and we 
tore down the serpentine road at marvellous speed, 
the four horses being managed with consummate 
skill. At a very steep and dangerous curve water 
had flowed over the road and become compact ice. 
Here the lumbering vehicle skidded sideways towards 
the precipice. I was jammed up in the coupd, which 
was little larger than a good-sized bandbox. I recog- 
nised the peril, but to have jumped out, as one could 

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have done from an open sleigh, was an impossibility. 
Two travelling pedlars in the body of the vehicle, 
whom we had picked up on the way, cried out in 
despair, and made a frantic effort to escape, but could 
not open the door. The driver had seen the danger 
instantly, and with commendable presence of mind 
lashed the horses into a gallop, keeping them close 
to the mountain side of the road. As the ponderous 
vehicle swung round it was poised for a moment on 
two wheels, and the hind part hung over the preci- 
pice. As soon as we were dragged into safety the 
restive horses were stopped. Out sprang the pedlars ; 
they were as pale as death, and I saw them devoutly 
cross themselves. I walked back, and stood on the 
edge of the precipice. There was a clear fall of over 
looo feet on to Needle rocks. As I grazed into the 
depths I felt that we had escaped utter annihilation 
by the skin of our teeth only, and a line from 
Euripides occurred to me : 

" How pleasant it is for him who is saved to remember his danger." 

The time came at last when I had to fold up my 
tent and move to fresh ground. I have been moving 
on all my life. My removal from beautiful Geneva, 
however, was precipitated by the bad drainage of 
my house, which somewhat seriously affected my 
throat. I came to London to consult my good old 
friend, the late Dr George Bird, of Welbeck Street. 
It was in Bird's house that Sir Richard Burton and 
his newly wedded wife, for whom he had waited ten 
years, had their wedding breakfast. Bird knew 

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everybody, and everybody loved him. He strongly 
advised me to leave Geneva immediately and live 
at the seaside for a time. My difficulty was to get 
the lease of my house cancelled. The owner, a 
woman, refused to do it, and I brought an action 
against her. Unfortunately, I lost it on a point of 
law, and it cost me a lot of money. 

Returning to England, I temporarily took up my 
abode in Deal, but had only been there a short 
time when another curious thing happened. It 
must, however, be dealt with in another chapter. 



234 



CHAPTER VIII 

How my life has been influenced by sudden and unexpected incidents — 
I accept an engagement in Dundee — Amusing experiences in 
Ireland during the time I was gathering material for a life of 
Richard Pigott — I take to lecturing — A cautious Scotsman prays 
for me — A temperance address, and how it affected me— The 
mysterious tragedy of Archibald MacNeil — I leave Dundee — My 
generous employers — I go to Canada — Lecture at the Imperial 
Institute — I raise a storm, and fight a newspaper war- — It all ends 
in smoke — An experience in Plymouth — A little comedy. 

In the course of this narrative I have dealt with some 
emphasis on the fact that my Hfe has to a certain 
extent — indeed, I would say to a large extent — been 
influenced and governed by sudden and unexpected 
incidents. I quite expected that Deal would be my 
home for a year or two. Anyway, I had rented a 
house on an agreement for three years, and settled 
down to some important work I had on hand. But 
while I planned one way, my Fate planned another. 
I must premise what follows by saying that for a long 
time I had been a contributor to The Du7idee Weekly 
News, then owned by Mr Charles Alexander, with 
whom I had the most pleasant relations. On the 
death of that gentleman The News and The Daily 
Courier were purchased by the late Mr William 
Thomson, of the firm of Thomson & Sons, ship- 
owners, of Dundee. One of the sons, Mr C. D. 
Thomson, I already knew, as he had been to Switzer- 

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land during my sojourn there, and had called upon 
me. From him I received an invitation, soon after I 
had taken up my abode in Deal, to visit him in 
Dundee. I accepted the invitation, and was the 
guest of his father, with whom he and his brother 
Frederick were living, in a beautiful house on the 
south side of the Tay. On the second or third 
evening of my stay, while sitting with these gentle- 
men enjoying our cigars after an excellent dinner, 
Mr Thomson, senior, told me that he and his sons 
were desirous that I should join their staff, and take 
up my residence at once in Dundee. I was a little 
bit staggered by this totally unlooked-for proposition, 
and reminded my excellent host that I had only just 
dropped anchor in Deal, and a shift from there at 
that time would not only put me to considerable 
inconvenience, but would necessarily involve me in 
expense. My host said those were mere details, 
which could be quite easily arranged. I urged the 
suddenness of the offer, and asked for time to consider 
it. He, on his part, urged that there was no time like 
the present, and that delays were dangerous. 

I was fully conscious of the compliment Mr Thomson 
and his clever sons were paying me in wishing to 
secure my services ; for I knew they were wealthy, 
energetic, and shrewd, and were bent on developing 
and expanding their newspaper business ; nevertheless, 
on my side there were certain private and domestic 
considerations which weighed with me, and seemed 
from my point of view to present obstacles not easily 
overcome, and this notwithstanding that I was quite 

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habituated to sudden changes, and was ever ready to 
start on a journey at the word of command, with no 
more luggage than a pipe and a tooth-brush. In this 
particular instance, however, my position was subject 
to circumstances which I had to take into calculation. 
I argued the point with my worthy host, who met me 
with the assurance that my position in Dundee should 
be, as far as he and his sons could make it so, a 
comfortable and remunerative one. 

The result of that nig-ht's conference was that the 
following day, in the Messrs Thomson's shipping offices, 
I signed a three years' engagement, and stipulated to 
remove to Dundee at once. I parted from my hospit- 
able hosts for the time being, and wended my way 
south, breaking the journey in the border country, 
through which I made a tour, and gathered material 
for a future historical work, which was subsequently 
published by Messrs Chatto & Windus. In the 
course of a month I found myself a resident of 
Dundee. That is nearly twenty years ago, and my 
friendly relations with the Messrs Thomson continue 
to the present day. However, this is somewhat 
anticipating. 

There is one incident associated with my Dundee 
experiences which I think I may venture to refer to. 
The Parnell Commission was sitting to inquire into 
the charges brought by The Times against Parnell ; 
and to say that the excitement in Great Britain was 
tremendous is hardly an exaggeration. Indeed, the 
whole of the strange drama in which Parnell figured 
so conspicuously was sensational, bordering on the 

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melodramatic. During that now historical inquiry 
the notorious Richard Pigott had been under examina- 
tion, until realising the hopelessness of his position, 
his courage and resourcefulness forsook him, and he 
fled. Then a little later the news was flashed from 
Spain that the hunted fugitive had blown his brains 
out in Madrid in the presence of those sent to capture 
him. I was in the editorial room of our daily paper 
one night, when the telegraph instrument clicked out 
the startling information. I immediately suggested 
to Mr David Thomson, the then managing partner of 
the firm, that we should have a series of articles in 
the weekly paper dealing with Pigott's life, and em- 
bodying every scrap of information that could be got 
hold of in connection with the career of this truly 
remarkable man. 

" But we have no material," said Mr Thomson. 

"We must get it," I replied. 

*'How?" 

" Somebody will have to go to Dublin." 

"Who?" 

" I will go." 

"Good. Start at once." 

" I shall want a considerable sum of money, because 
— well, because some of the information required may 
have to be bought." 

" Draw whatever money you want from the 
cashier," were the final instructions. 

In a few hours I was on my way to dear, dirty 
Dublin, my pipe and tooth-brush as luggage, and 
a bag full of golden coin of the realm by way of an 

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open sesame, should it be needed. I was no 
stranger to Dublin, I had often visited the city, and 
had warm friends there. With no particular concern 
I learned on arrival that stringent Government 
orders had been issued that under no circumstances 
were particulars relating to Pigott to be given to the 
Press. The house he had occupied at Bray was in 
the hands of the police, while in official quarters 
official lips were bound hard and fast with extra-strong 
red tape. However, I wasn't disheartened, although 
there was a mountain of obstacles in my way. I 
couldn't climb over it, I couldn't go round it ; I 
therefore determined to mine through it. I must be 
wary in detailing the processes adopted during the 
mining operations, but I have a recollection of creeping 
through a keyhole of the closely guarded house at 
Bray, and subsequently of my playing the host to a 
distinguished party of gentlemen at a small hotel, 
where a recherche supper was enjoyed. And what a 
supper it was ! My guests were epicures. The 
oysters were Dublin's very best, and Dublin knows 
how to rear oysters. The champagne was pro- 
nounced a superb brand, in the pink of condition. 
The coffee and liqueurs were a gastronomic treat. 
And the cigars ! Ah, those cigars ! They were 
dreams ! Then occurred a little dramatic episode. 
The neighbouring clocks were solemnly tolling mid- 
night, when all present entered into a compact. It 
would have made a most effective scene on the staee. 
In the grey light of a quiet dawn, for sleep still held 
the city, I stood on the steps of the hotel enjoying the 

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morning air. musing on the strangeness of human 
affairs, and thinking how a man dead might, under 
certain circumstances, be worth more than a man 
Hving. Why there should have been so much mystery 
and secrecy about Pigott's affairs I am utterly at a loss 
to understand even at this distance of time. But the 
Government official mind is not as other minds ; 
besides, what is Government red tape for if not to 
gag men's mouths ? That is all right as far as it 
goes ; in the arch-rebel Pigott's case, however, there 
did not seem any reason for secrecy excepting in so 
far as his papers were concerned, for it was believed, 
and subsequently proved to be the case, those papers 
threw a good deal of light on the dark ways of the 
Fenians. But I didn't want his private papers ; what 
I did want were certain facts and particulars concerning 
his career ; these were not to be got in a straightforward 
way, for the Government had said it. Nevertheless, 
I did ofet information, and a lot of it. Of course, I 
was regaled with many wild stories, and I had to sift 
a tremendous amount of chaff before I came across a 
grain of wheat. Pigott was a scoundrel, a deeply 
dyed scoundrel, but a singularly interesting one. He 
was clever, too, and was able for a number of years 
to lead a double life, which deceived everyone, even 
those who were most intimate with him. And as the 
world now knows, he deceived The Times, in spite of all 
the cleverness and intellect of the conductors of that 
journal. How The Times came to be gulled by so 
shallow a rascal the world does not know, and prob- 
ably never will. Printing House Square jealously 

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oiKirds its own secrets, as the Cunormnent i^uanl 
theirs. The Ti)fies people bc^lievetl ilu"v had scored. 
backed their opinion heavily, and, ot course, lost. 

A little incident which occurred during- my stay in 
Dublin is too anuising to be passed over. I had 
occasie>n to call in the neii^hbourhood ot the Castle 
several times, and at last I became aware that I was 
an object oi interest to two i^enllenien whose duty it 
was to keep their eyes open. An astrakhan t'ur- 
triniined coat and a soft felt hat (a weakness c^f mine) 
that I wore, had drawn the attention of those gentle- 
men to my humble self, though why that particular 
stvle o{ costume should have subjected me to the 
attention of C'lOvernment spies 1 could ne\ er make 
out. If 1 had wanted to blow up the Castle, murder 
the Lord- Lieutenant, or raise an Irish army for the 
invasion of England, it is hardly likely 1 should have 
made myself conspicuous by certain articles ot cloth- 
ing, nor should 1 have paid frequent visits to the 
Castle in broad daylight. But as an Irish friend of 
mine put it, " The ways of thim detictives are fearful 
and wonderful, begorra ! " Init there was an epidemic 
of Fenian on the brain, and those two gentlemen who 
honoured me with their attention had it badly. One 
morning, as I got on to my jaunting car. they mounted 
a car also, and prepared to follow me. "Who are 
those fellows } " I asked my jarvey. 

" Detictives, my lord." I had hired the jarvey for 
many days running, and he insisted on addressing 
me as ** My lord." He had an eye to tips. 

" Why are they following me ? " 1 asked. 
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" They think yer a Fanian, my lord." 
"Oh! Can your horse travel fast, Pat?" 
" Begorra, my lord, he's the wonderfullest horse in 
Dublin. When he has a mane person behind him 
divel a bit will he go. But he knows yer a lord ; and 
he's a thought reader too, yer honour. If it were in 
yer moind that yer lordship intinded to give me foive 
shillings, he'd know it at once, and, yer honour, there 
wouldn't be a baste in Dublin that could bate him." 

"Well, Pat," I answered, "it is in my mind, and I 
want to give those gentlemen a run for their money. 

Get into Phoenix Park, then go like Well, go ; 

but go anywhere, and keep going, you understand." 

That wonderful horse rose to the occasion ; by the 
aid of plenty of whipcord and sturdy, stimulating 
Irish oaths, he went, and the fun began. A Roman 
chariot race wouldn't have been in it. We flashed 
up one road and down another of the park. We 
swung round corners on one wheel, and my two friends 
were ever behind us. On we flew, on they came. 
It was splendid. It filled one with the elixir of life ; 
but at last my steed, in spite of plenty of whipcord 
and oaths, and the promise of another five shillings, 
showed signs of faltering. "To the Red House" (a 
renowned hostelry), I commanded. To the Red 
House we sped. Arrived, I sprang down, rushed 
to the bar, and ordered some oysters and stout. In a 
few minutes in rushed my panting followers. "We 
want your name and address, sor," demanded one 
fiercely. 

" With pleasure, my friend." And I handed him my 

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card, bearing the name of my papers. " We've had a 
pleasant drive. Will you join me in oysters and 
stout.'* " 

The two gentlemen looked a little crestfallen. 
"You newspaper men are divils," murmured the 
speaker. Then he added pathetically : " Begorra, 
sor, we tuk yer for a Fenian." I managed to convince 
the worthy watch-dog that I was not a Fenian, not 
even in sympathy with the aims and objects of 
F'enianism ; so we spent a pleasant hour together, 
and found the stout and oysters good. 

A week or so later I was back in Dundee, and 
thereafter for sixteen or seventeen weeks appeared 
in The Weekly News a circumstantial narrative of 
Richard Pigott's life, and the circulation of the journal 
bounded upward. A year or two ago those articles 
were collated and published by Mr John Long under 
the title of "The Crime of the Century," with much 
additional matter which I had been able to secure in 
the interval. During my engagement in Dundee I 
made a tour through Norway, and contributed a 
number of descriptive articles to The Daily Courier. 
Subsequently I got up a lantern lecture on Norway, 
and delivered it in many parts of Scotland. There is 
a funny little anecdote in connection with this period 
which is also worth telling. I was engaged to appear 
at an institute in a very small town four miles from 
the nearest railway station. My chairman for the 
evening was a local gentleman who kept the only 
grocer's shop in the village. In introducing me he 
referred to me as "this mon wha's come here tae 

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o 
broaden oor intellects, " In speaking of his own 
experiences as a traveller, he confessed that they had 
not been extensive, though they had embraced 
" Aberdeen awa," as well as Edinboro', and "Glasgae," 
but "this mon has been all over the world;" then 
with the Scottish caution, which is such an admirable 
trait, he added: "At least he tells us so." And the 
trait I have alluded to being exceedingly strong with- 
in him, he invoked divine aid by saying that "a wee 
bit prayer" would not be out of place. Folding his 
fat hands in front of him, and throwing back his bald 
head until the bristly hairs of his very red moustache 
stood out like the quills of a fretful porcupine, he shut 
his eyes, and offered up a very telling supplication, 
which lasted for fully five minutes. It seemed to me 
to be an hour. He wound up with this peroration, 
which was like the inspiration of genius : 

•'And oh. Lord, pit it intae the heart o' this mon 
tae speak the truth, the hale truth, and naething but 
the truth, and gie us grace to underston' him." 

That pious grocer was evidently dubious about 
travellers' tales ; and I am afraid I failed to satisfy 
him, in spite of his soul-moving appeal on my behalf, 
for when proposing a vote of thanks at a later period 
he said "that while the 'Lectur' was exceedingly 
interesting, he didn't think Mr Muddock had been 
quite free from exaggeration. For instance, he says 
there are fields of ice in Norroway forty miles and mair 
long. Weel, me friends, I could swallow doon they 
fields o' ice, but when he tells us that they Norwegians 
dinna ken Scotch whisky, I'll no believe him. It 

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isna possible that any people ca'ing themselves cee- 
veelised can be sae benighted as to be ignorant o' 
Scotch whisky." 

As I couldn't get away from the village that night, 
I was the worthy grocer's guest. He made me 
sample some excellent Scotch, and promised that 
should I be visiting " Norroway " again, he would 
entrust me with a few cases for distribution amongst 
the natives, so that they might no longer remain in 
ignorance of the blessed " Mountain Dew." I have 
been to Norway since, but as I felt there might be 
difficulties in the way, under the Norwegian laws, of 
my taking advantage of my friend's generous offer, I 
did not trouble him, and the Norwegians remain be- 
nighted to this day. 

When my three years' engagement with the Messrs 
Thomson expired, it was renewed for another three 
years ; but at the end of the fourth year I was weary 
of Dundee, and after some negotiations my employers 
most generously allowed me to reside in London. 
Soon afterwards the fever of Wanderlust burned in 
my veins once more, and it led to a little friction 
between me and Messrs Thomson, but I was entirely 
to blame. I informed them I was going to make a 
tour through Canada. They very properly objected ; 
but the more they objected, the more I insisted, and 
with the headstrong determination which on more 
than one occasion, I am afraid, has caused me to run 
my head against a brick wall, I went to Canada. 

Looking at that little episode from this point of 
time, I cannot sufficiently express my sense of ap- 

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preciatlon of the handsome manner with which Messrs 
Thomson treated me. They had good grounds for 
an action for breach of contract ; most certainly they 
would have been within their rights had they cancelled 
the agreement ; but with the magnificent generosity 
which I have always experienced at their hands, 
they did not even do that, and for many years after- 
wards I continued to write for them. It affords me 
very great pleasure to make this amende honourable 
to a firm of gentlemen to whom I am indebted for so 
much kindness. 

It was about this time that the Savage Club was 
greatly perturbed by a strange tragedy. A prominent 
member with whom I was well acquainted, Mr Archi- 
bald MacNeil, came to a strange and terrible end. 
MacNeil was on the staff of The Sportsman, and was 
sent to France by his editor to report an event of 
great interest to the sporting world. He put up at 
the Hotel de I'Athennee in Paris. When his duties 
were fulfilled, and he was about to leave, he tried to 
get a bank-note for ^50 changed, but did not succeed, 
and he left Paris by a train for England, following 
that which had conveyed some of his colleagues, who 
had been in France on the same errand as himself. 
He reached Boulogne in time for the steamer which 
was to convey his friends across the Channel. When 
he got on board he suddenly remembered that he had 
left a valuable walking-stick in the waiting-room, and 
ran back to get it. From that moment the mystery 
began, and all trace of him was lost. He came not 
back, and the steamer went without him. It was 

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thought, of course, by his friends that he would return 
by the next boat ; but he did not, and some uneasiness 
was felt. Inquiries were, made without result. 
Archibald MacNeil had mysteriously disappeared. 
About a week later, however, his body was found on 
the sands of Boulogne a mile or two from the harbour. 
There were several wounds on the head, each wound 
having a strange resemblance to the other. Inquiry 
revealed the fact that he had been seen on the day of 
his disappearance in the company of a professional 
guide, whose name was Vermische. They were 
observed in a little cafe near the Fish Market. This 
man was arrested, but subsequently discharged for 
the want of evidence. On the dead body there was 
nothino- of value, though MacNeil was known to 
have been in possession of ;^30 in gold, several notes 
for ^lo each, and one for ;i^20. This was in 
addition to the ^50 note he had tried to change in 
Paris. Curiously enough, that particular note was 
never heard of more, but the others were forwarded 
to the police, accompanied by an ill-spelt letter, which 
declared that the writer had found them on the sea- 
shore. They had apparently been soaked with sea 
water, but the police submitted them to analysis by 
an expert, who failed to detect any iodine, and who 
proved that the water which had stained them was 
fresh water, in which common salt had been dissolved. 
Two English ladies staying near Boulogne stated 
that on the night of MacNeil's disappearance they 
heard cries of "Help, murder!" coming from the 
direction where two officials were on duty on the shore. 

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Subsequently a statement was made to the police 
by a person, who having quarrelled with a comrade, 
denounced him as the criminal. The informer's 
version was the victim was enticed from the town to 
the seashore, where he was assaulted, robbed, and 
thrown into the sea. Nothing, however, seems to 
have resulted from this confession. Possibly inves- 
tigation proved it to be not true. The doctor who 
made the autopsy averred that when the unfortu- 
nate man was cast into the sea he was undoubtedly 
alive. My friend, the late Henry Herman, the well- 
known dramatic author, spent much time and money 
in trying to unravel the mystery. He pursued the 
two suspected douaniers, and one of them, who was 
known to have changed English gold for French 
silver, became so alarmed that he took to his bed, and 
died. For some unaccountable reason that I wot not 
of, the authorities refused to arrest the suspected man, 
and to this day the mystery remains unsolved. 

MacNeil was a very able and popular journalist, 
and his sad end caused great sorrow to a wide circle 
of friends. 

To come back to myself, after I returned from 
Canada, where I had a delightful time, particularly in 
the Rockies, I took up lecturing professionally, and it 
fell in my way to deliver an address on Canada at the 
Imperial Institue. In the course of that address I 
considered, rightly or wrongly, that I was justified in 
criticising somewhat severely the management, and 
particularly the promotion, of the Canadian Pacific 
Railway. It has been my habit all my life — not a wise 

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habit, I admit, but an honest one — to speak out bluntly 
what I believe to be true. I spoke out bluntly on 
that occasion, with the result that an ill-advised gentle- 
man who represented the Company in London went 
for me the following day in a letter to The Times. It 
necessitated, of course, a reply from me, for a gross 
misstatement was made. Then practically the whole 
of the London Press threw themselves into the fray, 
and for some weeks there was a very pretty wordy 
war, and two or three of the subsidised reptile journals 
of Canada dipped their pens in the foulest of garbage, 
and bespattered me. However, it did not turn my 
hair grey nor deprive me of a single night's rest. 
And I was gratified by the enormous number of 
letters that reached me, generally of a highly com- 
plimentary character. At last the enemy resorted to 
rather a mean subterfuge to defeat me by getting 
Lord Herschell to write to The Times, which up to 
that moment had afforded me the hospitality of its 
columns. It closed the correspondence, so the little 
hubbub frizzled out. But I claim here, as I claimed 
then, that not a single fact I had stated was disproved. 
Opposed to me, however, were the powers of an 
enormous railway company and of a number of men 
of wealth and position. Nevertheless, I said my say. 
With the exception of the foregoing incident, my 
lecture experiences were pleasant enough, and often 
very amusing. On one occasion I was engaged for a 
Mechanics' Institute a few miles from Birmingham. 
The village was a dreadfully primitive place, and the 
Institute, which was no less primitive, was mainly 

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supported by a Birmingham manufacturer. This 
gentleman, who was small of stature, and painfully 
thin, had yellow hair and a yellow moustache and 
yellow eyebrows. His eyes were whitey brown and 
his voice a decided squeak. He was altogether a 
remarkable gentleman, with a wonderful amount of 
energy and activity of body. He had many pet aver- 
sions ; the chiefest perhaps was drink. The subject 
was one over which he thrilled, raved, and foamed. If 
he had had the making of the laws, he would have 
condemned every man or woman who touched alcohol 
in any shape or form, to instant death, without the 
benefit of spiritual consolation. When I reached the 
station, the darkness of which was made visible by 
four petroleum lamps with smoke-grimed glasses, it 
was raining. Well, that is a mild way of putting it : it 
seemed as if the heavens had burst. I asked for a 
cab. I was laughed at. There were no cabs there. 
How far was the Institute? A good mile. And so 
making the best of it, I set off to tramp that " good 
mile." I called it something else than good before I 
got to the end of it. I carried three boxes of slides, 
which aggregated about 30 lbs. when I started, but 
they increased in weight every yard, and weighed 
three cwt. before I had finished. And then the rain ! 
Well, the flood! I was in evening dress, and wearing 
light shoes. When I reached the Institute I was 
like a draggled scarecrow. I found that the platform 
consisted of some planks on orange boxes. The 
gentleman from Birmingham, he of the yellow hair, 
who was my chairman for the night, was waiting 

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anxiously for me ; the small hall was quite packed with 
the mechanics and their womenfolk, and the atmo- 
sphere was heavy with the smell of corduroy and 
damp leather. The chairman introduced me, then he 
addressed the audience on the " Curse of drink," and 
went mad. He danced with rage on the springy 
platform, and, of course, the spring boards jerked me 
up and down like a dancing doll. My wet shoes 
were pulp, and the rain dripped from my sodden 
garments; still that little yellow-haired man squeaked 
and danced, and banged his little fist on his palm by 
way of hammering home his arguments. For fifteen 
minutes by the clock he foamed. I shouldn't have 
lived through it but for a flask I carried in my breast 
pocket. That flask contained some magnificent old 
cognac I had brought from my own house, and every 
now and again, in the shadow of the screen, I appealed 
to the flask to comfort and sustain me through all my 
afliictions. At last the little man stopped from sheer 
exhaustion, and I began. My lecture over, I had to 
stand on one side to let the mechanics out, as the only 
exit door was at the platform end. When the room 
was nearly empty a huge fellow approached me, and 
whispered in my ear : 

" I say, guvnor, president's address didn't mak' 
much impression on thee. I saw thee sooping." 

I turned an appealing look upon him, hoping he 
would not annihilate me where I stood, and meekly 
whined : — 

" My friend, if you had been sodden to the skin, 
and cold and miserable, as I was, I am afraid you would 

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have supped had the chance presented itself. But 
spare me. Give me a Httle time to repent. Besides, 
I am an orphan." 

He o'rasped the hipel of my coat lovingly, and 
whispered : — 

" It's a' reet, guvnor. But look 'ere, hast ta gotten 
a drop left i' t' flask ? " 

I breathed once more, and in a weak moment handed 
him the flask. He unscrewed the metal top, gave 
me a look which meant much, and I heard my old 
cognac gurgle down his throat like water down a pipe. 
As he drew his dirty hand across his lips, dashed the 
tears from his eyes with his knuckles, he handed me 
back the empty Hask, with the remark, as soon as he 
could recover his breath : 

" Sithee, guvnor, thee tak my advice, lad. Don't 
thee soop ; it'll bring thee to damnation if tha does." 

I plodded my way to the station through the Hooded 
streets a sadder and a wiser man. Before I reached 
Birmingham — seven miles, with a station every mile, 
at which the jolting train stopped five minutes each 
time — I was a sadder and a madder man. The empty 
tlask seemed to come out of my pocket, and dance a 
fandango in the air, while a squeaky voice screamed 
in my ear : " You fool, you fool, you fool." However, 
I survived that little adventure as I had survived 
many others. 

I had another rather curious experience at Ply- 
mouth, where I had been lecturing. I had engaged a 
room at a hotel for the night, and my business being 
over, I was about to the leave the hall, when was I ac- 

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costed by a liveried servant, who touching his hat asked 
me if I was Mr Muddock. I said I believed I was, 
though it didn't do to be too cocksure about anything. 
He said that if I was the person he wanted, he had 
orders to drive me to his master's house in the carriage. 

" Who is your master ? " I inquired. 

" I arn't to tell you, sir." 

" Hello," I thought, "here's a pretty little mystery." 
And as I liked mystery, I asked no further questions, 
and was content to wait for developments. I followed 
the servant to a most luxuriously appointed brougham 
to which were harnessed a pair of magnificent horses. 
I entered that carriage with all the dignity of a prime 
minister, and sank down on the splendid cushions with 
a sigh of gratification. It was a bitterly cold night, 
and I was grateful for the costly footwarmer, which 
diffused a genial heat through the carriage. I hadn't 
the remotest idea where I was being driven to, nor did 
I care. Perhaps I was being kidnapped ! Perhaps 
some gentleman who had a grievance against me was 
having me conveyed to his house, where he would 
challenge me to a duel to the death ; or some dear 
old lady in possession of a million or so was going to 
make me her heir for the love of the thing. I had 
read of such things in fairy tales. Anyway, I was not 
greatly concerned. I found the carriage grateful and 
comforting. Half-an-hour passed. We stopped. The 
door was thrown open. I alighted. Before me was 
a flight of steps, on the top of which stood a footman 
in livery, brought into relief by a brilliantly lighted hall. 
I ascended the steps, entered the hall, was relieved of 

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my fur coat, and ushered into a superbly furnished 
drawing-room. A cheerful fire burned in the polished 
steel grate ; a soft, rose-coloured light from shaded 
lamps was diffused through the apartment. " This 
is nice," I thought, as I stood on the massive bear- 
skin rug, with my back to the fire, waiting for the 
next act. In a few minutes the door opened, and a 
charming lady, elegantly attired, hurried forward with 
outstretched hands, and exclaimed : 

" I am so glad to see you. How are you, Mr 
Muddock ? " 

I began to fancy that I was the victim of some 
strange delusion. I stammered out an apology. "Oh, 
you horrid man," she cried, "not to remember 
me ! " I confessed my sin, and prayed her to deal 
leniently with me. " I wonder if you will know Philip," 
she mused. 

I begged of her to tell me her name. " I won't, 
you nasty, horrid creature, until you have seen Philip," 
she answered, her beautiful face radiant with smiles. 

Then Philip, a somewhat ponderous, gouty, middle- 
aged, florid-faced gentleman, hobbled into the room, 
and he too put out both hands, and welcomed me 
effusively. I didn't know him. "Whatever do you 
think, Philip," said the lady to her husband, "this 
horrid man pretends he doesn't know me. Really, it's 
too bad. I suppose he thinks humble folk like us are 
not worth remembering." 

" Then we'll punish him," answered the husband 
gravely. 

"Sir," addressing me, "you shall be permitted to 

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sup before execution. Give your arm to that lady 
and conduct her to the supper-room." 

" I bow to your commands, sir," I said, " No 
more deHghtful way of meeting one's end could be 
imagined." 

We made our way to a splendid dining-room, where 
the well-spread table, resplendent with silver, glass, 
fruit, flowers, was like a fairy scene. Two sweet 
young girls — one sixteen, the other about eighteen — 
were introduced to me as " My daughters Eunice and 
Gladys." They were cautioned not to mention their 
family name. Next an exceedingly pretty girl, with a 
most intellectual face, the governess, was introduced 
as Miss Jones. 

" Put off the execution as long as you can," I 
pleaded earnestly to my host as he took his seat at 
one end of the table and ordered me to sit on the 
right-hand side of his beautiful wife. "I'm not tired 
of this kind of life yet," I added. " On my honour, I 
can endure a lot more of it." 

And so throughout the whole of the supper-time I 
sat there in absolute ignorance of the identity of my 
entertainers. And what a supper it was ! Every 
delicacy of the season almost, with the wines of the 
best. It was only when the cigars were introduced 
that my genial host enlightened me. 

Something like twenty years before that night I 
was staying at Zermatt in Switzerland. In the same 
hotel were a newly-married couple — a mere boy and 
girl, the girl sweetly pretty. I struck up a casual 
acquaintance with them. A few days later I was pre- 

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paring to start on a little glacier expedition with a 
friend and his sister, when the newly-married husband, 
who had sprained his foot, asked me if I would mind 
his wife going with us, as she was most anxious to 
make a glacier trip. Need I say I readily consented, 
and the four of us started off, accompanied by a porter. 
It was a glorious day, and when we reached the head 
of the glacier we were tempted to climb some rocks to 
a plateau, where we partook of luncheon and spent 
two or three hours. In going down the rocks to 
the glacier again, the young married lady was sud- 
denly seized with a giddiness and faintness. I caught 
her with one arm as she fell, and kept my position 
by clinging like grim death with the finger-ends 
of my left hand to a projecting piece of rock. My 
friends and the porter had gone on, and were out of 
sight. It was rather a trying moment for me. If I 
had slipped, my companion must have been dashed 
to pieces. However, I didn't slip ; I managed to get 
her down, and thankful indeed I was when we 
reached the level glacier ; but all the way back to 
Zermatt she was very ill, and it was as much as I 
could do to keep her going. Of course, she told her 
husband of what had occurred ; he overwhelmed me 
with thanks, and invited me to visit them in Bristol, 
if ever I was that way, where at that time he was in 
business. 

I parted from them at Zermatt, and never heard of 
them nor saw them again until that night when I 
lectured in Plymouth, where they had been living 
for some years. Naturally, they had passed 

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clean out of my memory. They had heard of my 
coming to the town, and wishing to give me a Httle 
surprise, had sent their carriage for me, instructing 
the servants not to mention their master's name, as 
they thought it quite probable that I might not recog- 
nise them after such a lapse of time and such a chance 
acquaintance ; particularly as I was not likely to know 
they had removed from Bristol. They decided I 
should be kept in ignorance until after the supper. 
It was a delightful little comedy, but two or three 
years afterwards I happened to be in Plymouth again, 
and called on my friends, to be shocked by the in- 
formation that my host of that delightful evening was 
no more. He had died a few months previously. 
His sorrowing widow was so ill that she could not see 
me, and before that year was out she too was dead. 

I have visited Plymouth several times since, but 
the place has always impressed me with a sense of 
sadness, and I have been glad to turn my back upon 
it, in spite of its beauty and charm. For how could I 
forget the delightful and the warm - hearted people 
who entertained me so royally and who seemed 
blessed with all that tends to make life enjoyable — 
wealth, position, sweet children ; nevertheless, while 
still young, they had been claimed by Death, yet I, 
the weather-worn and battered man, had been spared. 



257 



CHAPTER IX 

An interview with Mr (now Sir) George Newnes — How " For God and 
the Czar" came tobe written — Death ofmyfriend, Byron Reed, IM.P. 
Pathetic incidents — How a copyright of mine was infringed — 
Curious history of one of my books — A lawsuit — Remarkable 
point of law in connection with the Copyright Act settled — Mr 
Justice Kekewich awards me damages — I edit the third volume of 
the " Savage Club Papers." 

One day about the period I have now arrived at, I 
had occasion to call on my good friend, Mr Galloway 
Fraser, who had recently been appointed to the 
editorial room of Tit Bits. He and I were " acquaint " 
in bonnie Scotland, and we had some things to talk 
about. In the course of the interview he informed 
me that a big price had been paid for a serial that 
wasn't "catching on," and he added the query: "I 
wonder if you could do anything for us ? " I expressed 
an opinion that it came within measurable distance 
of possibility that I might. Whereupon I was asked 
to see Mr (as he then was) Newnes, and there and 
then was introduced to that gentleman in a room of 
the well-known corner building in Catherine Street. 
Mr Newnes didn't waste much time in preliminaries. 
He wanted a topical story. Had I any idea of a 
subject? I had. What.'* The persecutions of the 
Jews in Russia. The very thing. And the title? 
"For God and the Czar." Splendid! When could 
I let him have the copy ? In six months. "Great 

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Pages from an Adventurous FjTe 

Scott! I want it in a fortnight." "impossible!" I 
exclaimr-d. " Surprised to hear you say that. Go 
away somewhere. Shut yourse-lf up where letters do 
not come and the postman is at rest. I will announce 
the stfjry in a fortnij^ht, and be^in it a ff;rtni;^ht 
later." 

" I will 'JO," said I. 

" C>ood. Will you pardon me now.-' J am rather 
busy. Oh, by the way, what shall I fix the fee at?" 
I named a figure. 

"It's bi^, isn't it?" 

" It's the figure I must have, Mr Newnes." 

" Right. I never haggle about the price of literature. 
Good-bye." 

In a fortnight " I'or God and the Czar" was 
announced. A fortnight later it began. I kept it 
running for months. It sent the circulation of the 
paper up like a rocket, and it has stuck up in the 
literary firmament, very high, ever since. It is still 
edited by my friend F"raser. 

In book form "For God and the Czar" has run 
into goodness knows how many editions. It reached 
the heart of the Jewish world. It brought me letters 
from all parts, in all languages. The opening chapter 
of it was included in a book on literature and art, 
consisting of extracts from standard and well-known 
authors, published by J. S. Virtue & Co., and edited 
by R. Brayley Hodgetts, who spent many years of 
his life in Russia, It was translated into Yiddish. 
It was banned in Russia. Recently it has been issued 
in Japanese. 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

I wrote another work for Mr Newnes, "The Life 
of Vidocq," now pubHshed by Hutchinson & Co., 
and I was among the early contributors to The 
Strand Magazine. 

The year 1896 was saddened for me by the untimely 
death of my friend, H. Byron Reed, M.P. for East 
Bradford. I was very warmly attached to Reed. 
During September of that year he and his family had 
been living at St Lawrence, near Ventnor, in the Isle 
of Wight, where they had taken a furnished house for 
the season. The week before his death I had been 
staying with him, and Mrs Reed had drawn my 
attention to a pony which had been left by the owners 
of the house for the use of the temporary tenants. 
She informed me that her husband had driven the 
pony two or three times, but had nearly come to grief, 
as the animal was an exceedingly vicious one. The 
following day we had arranged a picnic to Black Gang 
Chine. As Mrs Reed protested against her husband 
going in the trap, I undertook to drive the pony, and 
a fellow-guest, a clergyman, agreed to accompany me. 
All went well for a time, but when near the Chine 
the pony displayed his temper, and we had a struggle. 
On the return journey no one would accompany me, 
and though the pony and I had some differences of 
opinion, I prevailed in the end. On arrival at the 
house Mr Reed's son was standino- at the door with 
a camera, and obtained a snapshot which, I here 
reproduce. Subsequently I urged my friend Reed 
not to attempt to drive the pony, as he was a nervous 
man, and, moreover, had had no experience with 

260 







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horses. He promised me that he would not do so, 
unless the boy who had been left in charge was with 
him. The following week I met Mr Reed in London. 
He was on his way to Bradford to address his con- 
stituents. He returned on the Friday night, and on 
Saturday I saw him off to the Isle of Wight, and 
promised to visit him again in the course of a few days. 
On the Monday I was walking along Cannon Street 
with a friend, when I saw on an evening paper poster an 
announcement of Byron Reed's death. The shock to 
me was terrible. It appeared that when Mr Reed 
arrived at Ventnor by the 3.30 train he was met at 
the station by the boy with the pony and trap. 
Reed took the reins, and all went well for some time, 
when suddenly the pony swerved, and ran into a 
gateway. Reed managed to get him in hand, and 
turned him round, but somehow or another the trap 
overturned, throwing both the occupants out. My 
friend alighted on his head, though after a time he 
partially recovered, and was able to walk to his home. 
He was fairly well on Sunday, but was seized with 
convulsions on Monday early, and died at 6.30. Mr 
Reed was an exceedingly gifted man, with every 
promise of a brilliant career before him in the world 
of politics. He was a most fluent speaker, a plucky 
fighter, a loyal and big-hearted friend. Curiously 
enough I had dedicated a book, called "Without 
Faith or Fear," to him, and the last sheets were 
being printed on the very day of his death. I was, 
however, in time to add a few appreciative lines, as 
follows : — 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

IN MEMORIAM 

In infinite sorrow and pity this work is now inscribed 
to the memory of my dear friend, Henry Byron Reed, 
who, as the book was on the eve of going to press, 
suddenly lost his life in the Isle of Wight through a 
carriage accident. I still felt the pressure of his honest 
heart handshake when the news of his death reached 
me. Money can buy many things, good and evil, 
but all the wealth of the world cannot buy you a friend 
nor pay you for the loss of one. 

Mr Reed, who had but recently returned from a tour 
in South Africa, was a nephew of Sir Edward Reed, and 
only in his forty-first year when he met with the fatal 
accident, which I have recorded in the foregoing lines. 

In another part of this work I refer to a youthful 
production of mine which I named" A Wingless Angel," 
a specially bound copy of which was accepted by her 
late Majesty Queen Victoria. The history of that 
book is so very curious that I propose to tell it. 

Originally issued by Virtue & Co. at half-a-guinea, 
the copyright was presented to me when that firm 
was reorganised and they ceased to publish novels. 
I then granted Mr Arthur H. Moxon, of 21 Pater- 
noster Row, publishing rights with a time limit, and 
he included it in " Moxon's Popular Novels." But 
he failed in business, and I never received any pay- 
ment. Then an unauthorised edition by some obscure 
firm was published, and I had to threaten the people 
with an action. They went into the Bankruptcy 
Court. A long time after that it came to my know- 
ledge that another unauthorised edition, priced at 

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2S. 6d., was being issued by James Blackwood, other- 
wise Blackwood & Co., of Lovell's Court, Paternoster 
Row. Failing to get an answer to several letters I 
addressed to Mr Blackwood, I put the matter in the 
hands of my solicitor ; whereupon Mr Blackwood 
called upon me at my house, and offered to settle 
the matter for ^lo. I declined. He then became 
defiant, and left me no alternative but to appeal to a 
legal tribunal. After the usual heart-breaking law's 
delay — in this instance nearly two years — the case 
came on for hearing before Judge Kekewich, and as 
it settled rather a curious point of law of great interest 
to authors generally, I give here the verbatim report 
which appeared in The Times for Wednesday, the 
17th of November 1897, as it may be instructive and 
useful in future years. Anyhow, it will show writers 
what quicksands they tread upon when they entrust 
their interests to courts of law. 

(BEFORE MR JUSTICE KEKEWICH) 
MUDDOCK V. BLACKWOOD 

This was a copyright case of some importance. 
Two copyright actions had been brought, one having 
been commenced in the Chancery Division, and the 
other in the Queen's Bench Division, but they had 
since been consolidated by an order in the Chancery 
action. The writ in the Chancery action was issued 
on 24th November 1896 by the plaintiff, Mr J. E. 
Muddock, the author of and the registered proprietor 
of the copyright in a work called " A Wingless Angel," 

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against Mr James Blackwood, a publisher, and a firm 
of publishers called J. Blackwood & Co., claiming an 
injunction, an account of profits, and delivery up of 
copies in respect of a work published by the defendants 
and under the same title, and being, in fact, a reprint 
of the plaintiff's work. On loth December the 
principal defendant, Mr James Blackwood, wrote to 
the plaintiff, offering to submit to an injunction, to 
pay ^lo as damages, to deliver up all copies in his 
hands, and to pay the plaintiff's costs as between party 
and party.^ The plaintiff, however, refused the offer, 
and on i8th December made a demand in writing on 
the defendants under Section 23 of the Copyright 
Act 1842 (5 & 6 Vict. c. 45) for all copies of the 
book unlawfully printed or imported, and then on 
23rd December 1896 issued the writ in the Queen's 
Bench action, claiming damages for wronoful conver- 
sion of copies of the book unlawfully printed without 
the consent of the plaintiff Then he delivered a 
statement of claim in the action, and on ist February 
1897 obtained an order in Chambers in that action 
transferring it to the Chancery Division, but expressly 
reserving the costs of the action to be dealt with by 
the Chancery Judge at the trial. On 8th February 
Mr Justice Kekewich, on the plaintiffs application, 
made an order that the two actions should be 
consolidated and proceed as one action ; and in 
the consolidated action the plaintiff delivered a 
statement of claim, claiming an injunction, delivery 
up of all copies in the defendants' possession, an 

^ He had previously called on me, and offered me ^10. 
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account of profits made by the defendants by the 
infringement, or alternative damages in respect of the 
infringement, with an inquiry as to the amount thereof, 
;^2 50 damages for conversion as in an action of 
trover, and costs. It appeared the plaintiff had not 
published any copies of his work since 1875 ; that in 
1886 the defendant, Mr James Blackwood, bought the 
stereotyped plates of the work at an auction sale at 
Messrs Puttick & Simpson's of Leicester Square, and 
had used them without demur until last year.^ An 
account furnished by the defendants showed that in 
in 1886 he sold loio copies at a total price of 
;^38, 19s. 9|-d., and at a profit of £8, 10s. 4jd. ; also 
in 1898 he sold 25 copies, at a profit of ;^i, 4s. 2d., 
his total profits thus amounting to /^g, 14s. 6^d. ; also 
that after taking into account the purchase of the 
plates and repairs, amounting altogether to ;^io, there 
had been a net loss on production and sale of the 
books of 5s. si^-'^ Mr Warrington, Q.C., and Mr J. C. 
Joseph, for the plaintiff, relied on Section 23 of the 
Copyright Act 1842, 5 and 6 Vict. c. 45. (Scrutton 
on Copyright, p. 246), which provides that all copies 
of any book wherein there shall be copyright, and of 
which entry shall have been unlawfully printed or 
imported or exported without the consent of the 
registered proprietor of such copyright, in writing 

1 I did not know that the book was being published until 1 896. How 
then could I demur ? Apparently the book was not sold in England, and 
was only advertised in defendants' trade catalogue. 

^ On the copies in circulation it was announced that it was the " Fourth 
Thousand." It will be noted that according to the defendants' account he 
had sold no copies between 1886 and 1896. 

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under his hand first obtained, shall be deemed to be 
the property of the proprietor of such copyright, and 
who shall be registered as such. And such registered 
proprietor shall, after demand thereof in writing, be 
entitled to sue for and recover the same, or damages 
for the detention thereof, in an action of detinue, from 
any party who shall detain the same, or to sue for 
and recover damages for the conversion thereof in an 
action of trover. Mr Renshaw, Q.C., and Mr J. W. 
Baines, for the defendant Blackwood, referred to 
Section 15, which enacts that if any person shall in 
any part of the British dominions, after the passing of 
this Act, print or cause to be printed, either for sale 
or exportation, any book in which there shall be sub- 
sisting copyright, without the consent in writing of 
the proprietor thereof, or shall import for sale or hire 
any such book, knowing such book to have been un- 
lawfully printed from parts beyond the sea, or know- 
ing such book to have been so unlawfully printed or 
imported, shall sell, publish, or expose, for sale or 
hire, or cause to be sold or published, or exposed for 
sale or hire, or shall have in his possession for sale 
or hire, any such book so unlawfully printed or im- 
ported without such consent as aforesaid, such 
oftender shall be liable to a special action on the case 
at the suit of the proprietor of such copyright to be 
brought in any Court of Rc^cord in any part of the 
British dominions in which the offence shall be 
committed. They submitted the two sections were 
inconsistent, and that the plaintiff was wrong in 
claiming as he had done, both in detinue and in 

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trover, for under Section 23 he must select the one 
mode of action or the other, not both. As to the 
alleged profits made by the defendant, when the 
price of the plates, and the usual trade discounts, were 
taken into consideration, it was clear there could be 
no profits. The plaintiff had resorted to a " Multi- 
plicity of actions " when he might have souj^ht relief 
by one action. The action had been, in fact, continued 
without any necessity, the defendant having offered 
all the plaintiff could justly claim. 

Mr Justice Kekewich said it was somewhat strange 
that in the end of the year 1897 ^^ should be called 
upon for the first time to say what was the meaning 
of Section 23 of the Act 5 and 6 Vic. c. 45 — whether 
the remedy given by that section was inconsistent 
with that given by Section 1 5 ; but he supposed he 
was really called upon to do that because no counsel 
had suggested to him that there was any decision ; 
and, moreover, the book on copyright which was in 
the hands of the profession, and to which reference 
was usually made on all questions of copyright, did 
not give any case on the subject. Two points had 
been raised. First, it was said on behalf of the 
defendant that Section 15 gave the proprietor of 
copyright a remedy by special action on the case ; 
that meant that this was the remedy which he intended 
to pursue, except so far as his remedies at common 
law were not interfered with ; that the offender under 
Section 23 was a different person to the offender 
under Section 15 ; that under Section 15 he was deal- 
ing with a person who had "unlawfully printed or 

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Paecs from an Adventurous Life 

imported " a book in which there was a subsisting 
copyright ; and that the other Section 23 provided a 
remedy against the accidental possessor of the infring- 
ing book, so as to give a right of action against the 
accidental possessor independently of his being other- 
wise a wrong-doer. That might be the right view, 
but the language of the section was not sufficiently 
clear to compel his Lordship to adopt it. No doubt 
there were words in Section 15 which were not to be 
found in Section 23, and he was unable to suggest 
why the two sections should not have been put into 
one, and why they should have been separated as 
they were. But, on the other hand, he did not see 
why, because the proprietor of the copyright had a 
remedy under Section 1 5 against the wrong-doer, he 
could not sue a wrong-doer, if so advised under 
Section 23. Then the next point was this, the book 
being vested in the proprietor of the copyright. 
Section 23 said he "shall, after demand in writing, 
be entitled to sue for and recover the same, or damages 
for the detention thereof, in an action of detinue, from 
any party who shall detain the same, or to sue for and 
recover damages for the conversion thereof in an 
action of trover." That provides an alternative 
remedy ; and the argument on behalf of the defendant 
was that the plaintiff claiming to sue under the section 
must elect to sue either in detinue or in trover, and 
could not sue in both. That was an easier point than 
the other. There was an alternative remedy. It 
would, in his Lordship's opinion, be adopting an 
extremely narrow construction of the Act to say that 

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the proprietor of the copyright in a book knowing 
that a person had a certain number of copies in his 
hands, and he had sold other copies, could not sue 
that person in respect of the copies that he detained 
and also in respect of those that he had converted to 
his own use. It seemed tolerably plain upon the Act 
itself, and in accordance with what was the apparent 
intention of the Legislature, that the two actions 
might be reduced to one action distributed in the way 
he had suggested — that is to say, the plaintiff might 
sue in detinue in respect of the copies the defendant 
had detained, and might sue in trover in respect of 
the copies he had sold and converted to his own use. 
Having got so far, the plaintiff in the present case, 
who was the proprietor of the registered copyright in 
a book called "A Wingless Angel," was entitled to 
sue under Section 23, and to sue the defendant not- 
withstanding that he might have brought what was 
called "A Special Action in the Case" under Section 
15, and he might have exercised his privilege of 
bringing an action on the case by proceeding in the 
Chancery Division, What then was the plaintiffs 
remedy? In his Lordship's opinion he was entitled 
to the delivery up on oath of all books in the posses- 
sion of the defendant — that is to say, delivery up, 
and also damages as in an action of trover for the 
books the defendant had sold. The defendant had 
sold twice. His Lordship declined to order an inquiry 
as to damages. It would be almost wicked to send 
the case to the Master or to an official referee to find 
damages for conversion ; if necessary, he should 

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Pages from an Adventurous T.ife 

have llic iiuiuirv hrUiro hiinscH". Mr Warrino'toii h;ul 
asked him to fix a sum, and if he adtlcd forty guineas 
for the whole, he thought he was i^ivino- the plaintiff 
as much as he was entitknl to. The plaintiff was also 
cntitKnl to an injunetion as part oi the onlcM'. Uj^on 
the c|uestion of costs, his LiM"dship said that the 
plaintiff mioht have obtained all the n'li(>f he souqht 
by one action in the Chancery Division. 1 le seemed, 
however, to have delermintHl lo tnuliiplv costs in 
every possible way, antl his Lordship) would do his 
best to mark his sense of the proceedino-. He should 
therefore q,ive him only the costs of the Chancery 
action ; tlu^ costs oi the other [>roceetlings he nuist 
be ordered to pay. 

In my humble i>pinion, nolhinq could Inciter illustrate 
the shameful delects oi the copyright law in this 
country than the foreooino'. It will be noted that the 
case was decitled on a miKleweil Act of Parliament 
passed fifty years before, which was so defective and 
ambio^uous that it wanted the wisdom of a multitude 
of leoal owls to determine what it all meant. It is 
also instructive as em[)hasisino the monstrous injustice 
to which authors have to submit, I was told on the 
highest authority that then^ had rarely been a more 
(laorant case of unlawful conversion than this. In 
the lirst instance, the person or persons who allowed 
the stereotyped plates to be put up to auction were 
t^uilty of an illegal act, and when the defendant 
purchased them he must have known perfectly well that 
the copyright in the work was vested in somebody, 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

for it had not Ixx^ii long enough in cxistcncf- for it to 
have lapsed. Instead of trying to fmd out who the 
somebody was, he coolly proceeds to \)v'\ui from thf.-m, 
and for years goes on selling the work. II a man 
infringes a [)atent he is liable to l)e cast in heavy 
damage's, hut according to Kekewich's ruling a pub- 
lisher may continue to issue a j)irated (;(litir)n of a 
b(K)k for years, and yet can only be calhd upon to 
j)ay a nominal sum. (Jjjvioiisly there is one law (or 
the inventor and another for the author, and though 
the law makers a pretence of affording an author pro- 
tection, it regards him really as of small importance. 

Anything more illogical than Mr Justice Kekewich's 
remark, that if he gave the plaintiff forty guineas it 
was as much as he was entitled to, could not he 
imagined. Again, his statement that the [)laintiff 
seemed to have determined to multiply costs in every 
possible way was untrue. 1 tried to exjjlain to the 
learned Judge that 1 had em[)loyed a reputable firm 
of solicitors, and that personally 1 knew nothing ai)Out 
th(; law on the subject. I was promptly sat upon, 
and sternly told that I ought to have made myself 
acquainted with the law. Could anything be more 
ridiculous.'* The laws are made by lawyers for the 
benefit of lawyers, and the layman liasn't a ghost of 
a chance. If a layman attemj;ts to conduct a case 
himself, he is informed that he ought to employ 
counsel, and he gets but scant consideration. I have 
had personal experience of that fact. Another wrong 
done to me in this instance was the refusal of his 
Lordship to order an inquiry as to damages. I could 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

have shown that I had suffered considerable damage. 
If my case, however, serves to call attention to the 
defects of the Copyright Act, and results in its amend- 
ment so as to afford authors greater protection, I shall 
be very well satisfied. 

The subsequent history of the book was funny. 
The defendant delivered to me about 2000 copies — 
900 bound, the rest in quires. For a time they 
were stored in the cellars of my solicitor's offices. I 
was negotiating for their sale, and found it convenient 
to remove them to another office, where shortly after- 
wards a distraint was put in for rent, and my property 
being on the premises was seized, and sent to an 
auction - room with the furniture and other things. 
Whereupon I was necessitated to serve the auctioneer 
with notice that if he offered the work for sale he 
would be guilty of an illegal act by selling a copy- 
right work without authority. At a later stage the 
story was used as a serial in The Weekly Dispatch, 
and finally I parted with all my interests in the work 
to a firm of publishers, who have since printed it in 
large numbers. 

In dealing with the early history of the Savage 
Club I have mentioned that two volumes of short 
stories were issued under the editorship of Andrew 
Halliday entitled the "Savage Club Papers." About 
the beginning of 1896 there was an opinion freely 
expressed in the Club that the time had come when a 
new volume of papers might be prepared, and I was 
honoured by being requested to undertake the editing 
of the volume. This I did, spending two years on 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

the work in collaboration with my dear friend, the late 
Herbert Johnston, as art editor. A more delightful 
companion to work with I never had. We had to 
surmount a good many difficulties ; but the book was 
completed at last, and issued by Messrs Hutchinson 
& Co. It was magnificently got up, and contained 
literary and art contributions by many of the most 
prominent members of the Club. On 22nd October 
1897 I was gratified by a letter from the secretary, 
informing me that "the Committee had passed a vote 
of thanks unanimously in recognition of the valuable 
services " I had rendered with regard to the Savage 
Club Papers. The volume was issued to the public 
on Monday, the 27th of September 1897. 



273 



CHAPTER X 

The Saturday Savage dinners — Distinguished guests — Ladies' nights — 
Our honorary secretary — A Nansen night — Good story by Lord 
Alverstone — The Indian princes — Phil May and the flower 
girl — Captain Scott and officers of the Discovery — Sudden death 
of a member while singing a song — Death of my friend, Paul 
Frenzeny — Brief particulars of some prominent members. 

In dealing with the Savage Club in a previous chapter 
I speak of the Club as being unique, and I claim that 
distinction for it on several grounds. On every 
Saturday evening for something like forty Saturdays 
in each year there is what is called "The House 
Dinner." It is an institution which dates back for 
more than a generation. Men from every quarter of 
the globe have been numbered in the famous gather- 
ings : kings, princes, dukes, earls, counts, baronets, 
knights, generals, admirals, great explorers, great 
scientists, grreat divines, ereat iud^es, distingfuished 
lawyers, litterateurs, ambassadors, consuls, poets — 
a long, long list : men of all colours, all nationalities. 
The hospitality of the Club has passed into a proverb, 
and to preside over these feasts is a privilege of which 
any member may feel proud. These weekly as- 
semblies go on like the brook. 

For men may come and men may go, 
But one thing ever on must flow 
Till Time's grey locks grow thinner. 
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Though Church and State to limbo went 
There must be no disestablishment 
Of the Saturday Savage Dinner." 

A wholesome rule, broken only on special occasions, 
is that all speeches are taboo. As soon as the feast- 
ing is over the Chairman for the evening rises, and 
commanding silence by striking the table with a 
ponderous club, exclaims: " Brother Savages, you may 
smoke." That is not only the signal for the lighting 
of pipes and cigars, but for the beginning of an enter- 
tainment, the like of which cannot be experienced 
anywhere else. The entertainers are all specialists 
in their particular lines, and one can hear the best of 
everything, songs, music, recitations, etc. — the "etc." 
covers a very wide range, from military bands to 
marvels and mysteries. Occasionally the Club-house 
has been graced with the presence of ladies — for the 
first time on the 6th of June 1891, when Mr Byron 
Webber wrote a special address of welcome. And at 
the annual dinner, which for some years now has been 
held at the Hotel Cecil, ladies lend an additional 
charm to the gathering, and are graciously permitted 
to gaze down from the height of the Golden Gallery 
on the Savages feeding below. 

I have so many friends among the Savages that it 
seems almost invidious to single any of them out for 
special mention in these pages, but I feel that passing 
reference to a few who have done so much to uphold 
the traditions of the Club and to bricrhten the enter- 

o 

tainments is unavoidable. 

A conspicuous figure — and there are numerous con- 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

s[)icuous liL^Lircs — is the honoriiry secretary, Mr E. E. 
Peacock. For many years this ocntlcman has freely 
givenhis time and histalents for the benefit of the Ckib. 
His face is an index to his mind. Graceful, tactful, 
genial, gentle, big-hearted, tender — these are some of 
the qualities which have endeared him to his brother 
Savages. To imagine that Peacock could think, let 
alone say, an unkind thing o\ any living being would 
be to do outraofe to one of the most upricrht, bio-orest- 
hearted men it has ever been my privilege to count 
my friend. P'or a long period he representetl 7V/6' 
Jl/o?'Ui/!<; Posf in the gallery of the 1 louse of Commons, 
and some years ago was appointed manager of that 
splendidly edited journal. This well-deserved honour 
to a tried and faithful servant was made the raison 
d'etre for his brother Savages to show how highly he 
was appreciated, and the " Peacock Night " will long 
be remembered. To Mr Peacock's organising and 
business capacity the Club owes much, and it did not 
forget its indebtedness when in honouring him it 
honoured itself. Mr Peacock has been honorary 
secretary for several years, and so much time has he 
given to his duties, and with such strenuous zeal has 
he studied the interests of the Club, that he was 
entertained at dinner on i ith June 1904, when the late 
James Macintosh took the chair, and the guest of the 
evening was the recipient of a handsome testimonial 
from the members of the Club, who availed them- 
selves of this opportunity of showing their practical 
appreciation of the honorary secretary's devoted ser- 
vices. The secretaryship of a club like the Savage 

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is by no means a sinecure. There have been many 
secretaries, but I believe Mr Peacock has held the 
position for a longer period than any of his predecessors. 

Another good old member of world-wide popularity 
whose geniality and unvarying good temper has 
secured for him a host of friends, is Charles Collette, 
a man bubbling over with knowledge and cleverness, 
and yet modest and unostentatious withal. 

He is the grandson of a brilliant and distinguished 
officer, the late General Collette of the Madras Cavalry, 
and for some time Governor of Jaulna, and as a young 
man fought under Wellington in India. His uncle 
was Colonel Collette, who commanded the 8oth Regi- 
ment. As a very young man Charles was intended 
for the Bar, but hereditary instincts were too strong ; 
he wanted to be a soldier, and his father bought him 
a commission with the 3rd Dragoon Guards. " Cheer- 
ful Charlie," as he was and is still called, distinguished 
himself as an officer, horseman, and great all-round 
sportsman, while as amateur actor he had few equals. 
On leaving the army he became a member of the 
theatrical profession, and his talents have given him 
a front rank position. As one of the Saturday night 
entertainers at the Club he is always sure of a hearty 
welcome. To hear " Cheerful Charlie's " patter recita- 
tions is a treat. His membership dates back to 1875. 

Another man who is conspicuous in literature is 
quiet, clever Arthur Morrison. 

Although he is still little more than a youth, he has 
made a big name for himself, and his "Child of the 
Jago," "Tales of Mean Street," and a dozen other 

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books, including some very clever detective stories, 
will be known to generations yet unborn. He has a 
mania for collecting Japanese paintings, but in all 
other respects is one of the sanest of men I know. 
Like the sailor's parrot, Arthur doesn't talk much ; 
but he thinks a lot, and the results of his thinking are 
at long intervals a brilliant book, which inflates his 
banking account to a ridiculous extent ; but then the 
mania — well, it means that after more thinking the 
reading world is enriched by another brilliant book, 
while Arthur's collection of things Japanese is 
increased, so we can forgive his little weakness. 

Then we have many sweet-voiced singers, prominent 
amongst them being handsome, full-chested Franklin 
Clive, who is an artist to the tips of his fingers. When 
Franklin grets on his hind leo^s the Clubmen know that 
they will have a treat. His " El-Dorado" and " On 
the Road to Mandalay " live in one's memory. While 
as for his "Drinking" (I trust that there will be no 
misunderstanding here, and that I shall not be served 
with a writ for libel), it somehow seems to get into 
your blood, and when the applause has subsided the 
waiters, it is noted, are in great request. Mr Clive has 
long been known as a concert and operatic artist ; he 
was enrolled a member of the good old Club more 
than twenty years ago. He is beyond doubt a 
vocalist of great prominence, while his operatic 
work with Mapleson at' Covent Garden, in Ivanhoe 
with the Carl Rosa, and other opera companies, 
proved him to be an able and excellent actor. 

And what of Courtice Pounds ? Brother he is, 

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members crowded into the room. It was certainly 
one of the biggest nights in the history of the 
celebrated Club. For myself, I was greatly im- 
pressed with Nansen. He has a wonderful face 
and head, and in his manner and bearing suggests 
great force of character, an iron will, quick de- 
cision, tremendous powers of endurance, and withal 
a singular modesty. Of course, on an auspicious 
occasion like the one I here allude to, the wholesome 
rule of " No speeches" was relaxed. Nansen, it will 
be remembered, had, with one companion, performed 
a feat in the way of Arctic travelling which was with- 
out parallel. That journey of theirs over the ice was 
a marvellous journey, and the wonder is that they 
lived through it. It was natural, therefore, that we 
Savages should want to hear from the traveller's own 
lips how he had fared, what his feelings were, what 
his thoughts were, and so he told us a good deal, and 
told it in a charming and modest way. He struck 
the keynote in the first words : " I'm as much entitled 
to be called a savage as any of you. I haven't used 
soap for two years." This seemed for the moment a 
grave reflection on the Savages, for occasionally they 
do use soap ; and there is a tradition that one or two 
have even been known to take a bath, so out came the 
scalping-knives ; but there was a magnetising smile 
on the bronzed face of the explorer ; that smile saved 
him, and with one accord we claimed him for our own. 
He wrote his name on the wall of the dining-room ; 
he drew a sketch map, and for a while held a great 
gathering under his spell. Dr Fridtjof Nansen has 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

certainly marked his name on the pages of history so 
that it won't come off, and to the end of time it will 
stand amidst the long list of brave, devoted, and 
determined men who have sought so gallantly to 
wrest Nature's secret from the weird solitudes around 
the Poles. 

On the following Monday there was a reception by 
the Royal Geographical Society of Dr Nansen at the 
Albert Hall, when there was something like 10,000 
persons present. It was a never-to-be-forgotten night. 
His Excellency Dr Nansen is now the Norwegian 
Minister in London. He took the Chair at the annual 
dinner of the club in December 1906. He has been 
good enough to favour me with his autograph, which 
I hear re[iroduce in facsimile. 

On 6th J uly 1901 the officers and members of the Ant- 
arctic Expedition, including Captain R. P. Scott, R.N., 
were the guests. Mr W. E. Smith, one of the chief 
constructors to the Admiralty, was in the chair. It 
was a great night. A few years before we had wel- 
comed Nansen when he so mysteriously reappeared out 
of the darkness of the North ; now we had assembled 
to wish God speed to a band of brave men who were 
going forth to the frozen South in the interests of 
science. Captain Scott made no attempt to minimise 
the perils he and his comrades would be called upon 
to face ; it would have been affectation to have done 
so ; but with the enthusiasm of youth and the zeal of 
the explorer he spoke with cheery optimism, and ex- 
pressed a hope that he would have the honour of 
being welcomed by the Club on his return. The 

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To /ace page 2H2. 



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entertainment providctd that iiicdiL was an exception- 
ally ^ood one, and was j^rcatly aj)pre(:iated hy our 
guests. At this notable gatherin^^ soni(; li^duning 
sketches were done hy an artist menihcr of the (>Iiil), 
an<l presented to ( 'aptain S(otl, wIkj took tlicni with 
him to the Antarctic. 

On <Sth March 1902 iJrolher Savage Lord Alver- 
stont;, ( i.e. M.(i., the Lord (^liicf Justice of I'ji^land, 
was in the chair. lie told a nuiidK-r ol .unusin^ ex- 
j)eriences. One was of a post office j)roseciition at 
I lertford Assizes, and as I Ixdieve it has never sr-en 
the lij^^ht of print, I tell it here. A clever Irish har- 
rist(;r ajjpeared for th(; defendant, who was a [)oor 
letter-carrier who had been J.(iiilty of some irregularity. 
Amonjr the witnt;sses was Anthony Trollope. 

"What are you?" asked the Irish barrisl<r in a 
severe and a ccniimandinj^ tone, sonorous with a rich 
broj^ue. 

" An official in the post c^ffice," answered rroll(;[)e, 
somewhat astonished by the Irish gentleman's bruscjue- 
ness. 

"Anything r:lse?" demanded the Counsel, with a 
snaj). 

"Yes; an author." This a little proudly. 

" What is the name of your last bfjok .'' " 

" ' Harchester 'I owers.' " 

" Now tell me is th(;re a word of truth in that 
book ? " 

" Well, it is what is generally called a work of 
fiction." 

"Fiction!" with a scornful curl of the lip. "I'iction!" 

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(he pronounced it Ficshion). "That is to say there 
isn't a word of truth in it from beginning to end ? " 

" I — I am afraid, if you put it that way, there isn't,' 
stammered Trollope in an embarrassed way. 

With a triumphant chuckle the Counsel turned to 
the jury, and exclaimed, with a chuckle : — 

" Gentlemen, how can you possibly convict a man 
on the evidence of a witness like this, who here in 
this Court of Justice unblushingly confesses that he 
has written a book in which there is not a word of 
truth ? " 

The Counsel got his man off, and subsequently 
when relating his triumph, said Trollope was one of 
the finest witnesses he had ever had to deal with. 

On 1 2th April 1902 Sir Henry Irving was enter- 
tained by the Club on his return from America. 
Among the notable actors and others present were 
BeerbohmTree, George Alexander, H. B. Irving, Law- 
rence Irving, Sir J. D. Linton, Sir W. P. Treloar. 
The chair was occupied by Dr Phineas Abrahams, a 
very distinguished member of the medical profession. 
It was a memorable evening. Sir Henry referred with 
pride to his long association with the Club (he was 
elected in 1871), and pathetically hinted that night at 
his probable retirement from the stage at an early 
date owing to advancing years. He said it would 
be a tremendous wrench when the retirement came, 
and then he added with strange significance : " Perhaps 
the severance may come and find me still in harness." 
1 2th July 1902 will ever be remembered as "The 
Indian Night." The guests were the Indian princes 

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then in London. They included Sir Jamsetjee Jee- 
Jee Bhoy, The Hon. Nawab Hati Ali Khan Kizh- 
bosh, Nawab Haiaz AH Khan of Pahasee, Colonel 
Nawab Mahomed Aslam Khan. Some of these 
gentlemen wore jewels worth a king's ransom, but the 
gentle Savages allowed them to depart with their 
valuables and their scalps. It reflects very creditably 
on the Savages. 

On 5th August 1903 that clever but erratic genius, 
Phil May, died, at the age of thirty-nine, and was 
buried in Kensal Green Cemetery. He was one of 
the most remarkable men of his age. A lovable, 
wayward, self-willed, gifted fellow, who by a few 
strokes of his pencil could earn big fees, which he 
squandered with princely prodigality as soon as he 
got them. One evening I left the Club with him to 
catch a train at the Underground Station, Charing 
Cross. On the way he would insist on going into 
Gatti's. A ragged, draggle-tailed, half-starved, but 
picturesque flower girl came in and offered him a 
bunch of violets. He accepted the flowers, and put two 
sovereigns into her hand. She was almost paralysed 
with astonishment by the receipt of so much money. 
Thinking a mistake had been made, I took the money 
from her, but Phil peremptorily told me to return it. 
" I can do what I like with my own money," he said. 
Then he posed the girl, and made a wonderful sketch 
of her in his note-book. When the child went away, 
clutching like grim death those two precious coins, 
she moved like one in a dream. Two pounds was a 
fortune to her, and for once at anyrate that ragged 

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child was happy. He often made me the subject of 
some of his caricatures, for he was no respecter of 
persons. Poor Phil ! He died too soon, but the work 
he did will hand his name down to posterity. He 
had starved and suffered, and when success came to 
him his constitution gave way, and he knew he was 
doomed. 

There is another characteristic story of him I am 
tempted to relate. He and I were at a banquet at the 
Cecil, when, at the close of a speech, he asked me to 
accompany him to the bar, which was deserted when 
we entered. Soon, however, there came from another 
room, where the employees of a certain large drapery 
firm were having a dinner to celebrate some occasion 
in connection with the firm, two or three young men 
in evening dress. I heard one of these men say to a 
companion : " Why, I believe that's Phil May. Plowed 
if I don't speak to him." He came to where we stood, 
and with outstretched hand said, with some faltering : 
" Mr May, may I have the pleasure of shaking your 
hand ? " The cheery Bohemian shook, and at once in- 
vited the new acquaintance to partake of refreshment. 
Of course, his companions were included. Then by 
some mysterious means the rest of the drapers were 
apprised. They swarmed into the bar, and Phil 
played the host to the whole lot, until there was a heavy 
score to settle. IHtra-respectable people will condemn 
this as folly. So it was — the folly of a generous, im- 
pulsive man, who believed and acted up to the belief 
that money was not the only thing in the world worth 
living for. And then, what of those drapers' assistants ? 

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To them it was a red-letter day in their monotonous 
Hves. They didn't want the drink, they didn't want 
the cigars, that the host dispensed with such pro- 
digaHty ; what they appreciated was being entertained 
by a genius who had made himself famous in two 
hemispheres. Many of them would no doubt cherish 
the memory of that evening as long as they lived, 
and think of Phil May with many a kindly thought. 
It is something to give pleasure to a large number of 
people, even though it has to be done by the exercise 
of a litde folly. 

On the 3rd of November 1904 the Club again 
entertained Captain Scott and his gallant officers of 
the Discovery after their three years' magnificently 
brilliant work in the South Polar regions. The 
lightning sketches presented to the Captain on his 
departure he brought back, and returned them to the 
Club, and they now adorn the walls of the Club-room, 
l^hey bear the signatures of Captain Scott and all his 
officers. If the send-off night had been a great one, 
the welcome home was greater. We had said fare- 
well with concealed misgivings ; but three years had 
flown — how quickly they had flown ! — and here were 
our guests back again, after splendid work done, and 
we shouted our welcome. Death had been busy 
among the Savages, and once familiar faces were 
missed ; but the Discovery's crew had come up from 
those ghastly regions of ice and snow away down 
under, and they had left only one comrade behind. 
Of the many Polar expeditions that have set out from 
Albion's white shores, this one was surely the most 

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fortunate, and Captain Scott told us it was partly due 
to the Savage Club. He and his officers had been so 
impressed with the entertainment provided for their 
enjoyment when we bade them good-bye that down 
in the South Polar regions they got up entertain- 
ments on the same lines, and enjoyed themselves so 
much that they had no time for sadness ; and so far 
from being dull were they that they laughed at the 
blizzards, mocked at the storms, defied the ice, 
revelled in the snow, and kept themselves warm with 
thinking of the cheery Savage Club. Robust, healthy, 
and happy they all looked as they feasted in the Club's 
cosy wigwam for the second time, and there was no 
mistaking the cordiality of the welcome we gave 
them. A very original menu was done by Dudley 
Hardy. 

On the 6th of May 1905 the Saturday night dinner 
was abruptly ended by a sad tragedy. We were enter- 
taining the members of the International Congress of 
Journalists, and my friend, S. S. Campion, a well- 
known journalist, was in the chair, Mr Charles 
Arnold, the popular actor, was standing at the piano 
singing a song bearing the title of "We take off 
our Hats to the King," and had reached the third 
verse, when he suddenly faltered, and fell dead. It 
was a terrible shock to us all, and we departed in 
silence. 

Arnold had distinguished himself as a character 
actor, and was particularly happy in the enormously 
successful farce entitled What happened to Jones, 
produced at the Strand Theatre some years ago. 

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< 0) 

H /a 

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He subsequently went on a long- tour, and according to 
report, made a fortune. He had but recently returned 
when his end came so tragically and dramatically on 
that fatal 6th of May. I was sitting quite near to 
where he fell, and at once my mind reverted to the 
night of years agone, when poor George Grossmith 
was suddenly called. 

Among the many men to whom I had been drawn 
by sympathy and tastes in common was the late Paul 
Frenzeny, artist, traveller, linguist, scholar, and good 
fellow. Paul, by birth a Breton, was a walking 
romance. He had been everywhere, seen everything, 
known everybody. He was erratic, as every man of 
genius is, but possessed a keen sense of honour, was 
loyal and staunch to his friends. He understood to 
the full the spirit and essence of camaraderie. Not 
only had he those magnetic qualities which endear a 
man to his fellows, but his marvellous intellect 
charmed you. I was certainly charmed with him. 
He was not only an exceptionally good classical 
scholar, but had an amazing knowledge of European 
literature. Soldier, sailor, rancher, explorer, gold 
digger, wanderer, artist, litterateur, he had seen life 
in all its phases. He and I were greatly attached, 
and had arranged to collaborate a book of travellers' 
stories together, which he was to illustrate. He had 
been absent from London for some time, and returned 
in April 1906, unfortunately out of health, but 
sanguine of recovery when the warm weather set in ; 
for like myself, he was a sun-worshipper. I saw with 
pain and sadness, however, how he grew gradually 
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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

weaker, and there was a noticeable failure of his 
mental powers. On Thursday, the 3rd May, we sat 
together in the Savage Club, and he arranged to 
come to my house on the Sunday. The day arrived, 
and passed, but did not bring my friend. Knowing 
his singular punctiliousness, I felt sure that by Monday 
morning's post I should be in possession of a letter ; 
but again I was disappointed. On Tuesday, on 
entering the Club, I was shocked to read a notice of 
his death. He had been occupying apartments near 
the Euston Road, and all that terrible Sunday was 
so ill that he was unable to lie down, but sat in a 
chair, lonely and unattended. He was in that chair 
on the Monday morning when a chamber-maid went 
to his room, but he was stone dead. He had been 
dead for hours. Of course, an inquest was held, \yhich 
I attended, and I followed my friend to his final rest- 
ing-place in Highgate Cemetery. Even when the 
mists of death were dimming his eyes and numbmg 
his brain, he remembered his engagement with me, 
as the following letters, which were found on his 
desk, will prove. He commenced one, and the ruling 
passion being strong in death, he made a sketch of a 
face, whose I know not, but it is clear from the word- 
ing of the letter that his mind was wandering. 

The second is complete. Which of the two was 
written first it is difficult to say ; but for me these 
scraps of paper have a mournful and pathetic interest. 

For some time before his end he had been making 
a number of sketches of members of the Club for an 
esteemed and old member, Mr James Macintosh, who 

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4 ^- All ^ 

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has since followed him into the silent land. Curiously- 
enough, the very last one in his sketch-book, now in 
my possession, is an unfinished drawing of myself, 
which is here reproduced. 

It was hurriedly done on the Wednesday afternoon 
preceding his death, and he promised to finish it on 
the Sunday at my house. The following Wednesday 
it was my painful duty to attend the inquest that was 
held to inquire into the cause of my dear friend's 
death. I reproduce over leaf two portraits of Paul 
Frenzeny. One represents him as he was a few years 
before his health broke down, and the other taken by 
his wife a very short time before the end came. 

The other sketches in the sketch-book I have 
already alluded to constitute a little gallery of brother 
Savages. I therefore reproduce them. They are the 
work of a dying artist, and can hardly fail to be of 
interest to those whom they represent. 

Frenzeny's career in his native France was a dis- 
tinguished one, and, impelled by a strong love of 
adventure, he found himself in the United States 
during the great Civil War which nearly rent the 
country asunder. At a later date he was present in 
his capacity of a French military officer at the trial 
and execution of the ill-starred Maximilian in Mexico. 
And later still, as a major of artillery, he fought through 
the Franco-Prussian War, and witnessed the carnage 
and the debacle of France on the bloody field of Sedan. 
But these are mere details in the strangely adven- 
turous life of Paul Frenzeny. As a black and white 
artist he did splendid work for years for The Illustrated 

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London News and other papers, and was as gifted 
with his pen as he was with his pencil, while his varied 
career furnished him with material such as few men 
can command. It was my proud privilege to be able 
to count myself as one of Paul Frenzeny's most 
intimate friends, and I loved the man. Possessed of 
magnificent courage, an iron will, and a proud, defiant 
spirit, he bore his great sufferings in silence, trying to 
conceal, even from those who knew him best, to what 
extent his sufferings were accentuated by lack of 
means. His going out left a blank in my life. I 
knew so much of the goodness that was in him, I 
admired his splendid courage, and his intellect 
appealed to me. To lose a friend is sad at any time, 
but the sadness is enhanced and the pathos deepened 
when the friend whose hand you have clasped but a 
few hours before dies as Paul Frenzeny died. His 
summons came to him in the dead of night in a mean 
London lodging, when all whom he loved, and who 
loved him, were far away. His landlady, a kind- 
hearted woman, I imagine, would no doubt have 
rendered her lodger such assistance as was within her 
scope had she but known of his condition. But he 
remained grimly silent. It is difficult to believe he 
was in ignorance of the nearness of his end ; indeed, I 
am convinced from his letter to me that he knew the 
last sands of his life were running out. He recognised, 
however, that no human power could save him, and 
he scorned to put strangers to any trouble. It was 
an act of heroism. His end had come, and he faced 
it like a man and a soldier, but those who loved him 

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can but regret that he died in solitude and in a house 
where he was unknown. God grant that in that 
supreme moment when the mists of death were 
dimming his eyes, some sense of duty done, some 
effort made to leave the world a little better than he 
had found it, enabled him to feel that he had earned 
his rest. He bore his fate with heroic patience, 
steadfast will, indomitable courage, and I for one 
will not believe that so brave a spirit has suffered 
extinction by the final triumph of bodily disease. If 
Frenzeny failed to write his name on the enduring 
tablets of fame, it was due to a force of circumstance 
he could not control. What his hand found to do he 
did with all his might ; there was no sordidness in his 
nature ; he had great ideals, and though he recognised 
the impossibility of realising them, he strove ever to 
reach a higher plane. He was generous to a fault, 
peculiarly tolerant of those weaknesses common to all 
humanity, and where he could not praise, he could 
not blame. May the turf lie lightly on him ! 

I feel that these rambling notes of the dear old 
Savage Club would hardly be complete without a 
few words about another good friend, Edwin A. 
Ward, the distinguished portrait painter, whose 
portrait of myself forms the frontispiece of this book. 

Mr Ward is a gentleman of marked originality, 
whose cheery optimism and old-world courtesy make 
him a welcome guest wherever he goes. As a portrait 
painter he ranks very high in his noble art, and his 
genius has brought him commissions from most 
of the celebrities of the day. Some years ago Mr 

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Henry Lucy resolved to form a private portrait 
gallery of celebrated people, and in looking about for 
an artist competent to undertake so important a com- 
mission, he chose Mr Ward, who executed portraits of 
the following distinguished persons : — John Morley, 
Joseph Cowen, Lord Randolph Churchill, Lord 
Rosebery, A. J. Balfour, Joe Chamberlain, Sir John 
Tenniel, Sir Francis Burnand, Henry Labouchere, 
Lord Russell of Killowen, and Sir Henry Irving. 

Mr Ward also painted a portrait of the late Cecil 
Rhodes for Lord Northcliffe. Subsequently Ward 
was induced to visit India in order to paint the 
portraits of some of the most prominent princes and 
rajahs. He travelled extensively through the country ; 
thence to Japan, where he astonished the Japanese by 
his marvellous facility in catching the expression and 
natural pose of his sitters. 

Another artist very well known in the Club is 
W. H. J. Boot, art editor of The Strand Magazine from 
its foundation. Before that appointment he had done 
an enormous amount of black and white work ; drew 
for The Graphic, Illustrated London News, and most 
of the other illustrated papers. Book illustration also 
kept his pencil busy, and he was responsible for many 
of the illustrations which appear in CasselTs Picturesque 
Mediterra7iean and Picturesque Europe, which necessi- 
tated his travelling much on the Continent as well as 
in Great Britain. He has frequently exhibited in the 
Royal Academy, and in all the principal provincial art 
galleries, and for the last seven years he has been 
Vice-President of the Royal Society of British 

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Artists. Mr Boot is a cultured Bohemian, a staunch 
friend, and a lovable man. 

The editor, and, I believe, originator, of The Strand 
Magazine is Mr H. Greenhaugh Smith, M.A., whose 
marked editorial abilities have given the Strand its 
position as one of, if not the most, popular magazine in 
the world. Mr Smith is an old and popular member 
of the Club. 

Amonof other distingruished " Black and White " 
men who lend lustre to the Club are W. H. Pike, 
R.B.A. — "Billy" as his familiars are privileged 
to call him — and bland, genial Douglas Almond. 
Many of the special menus of the Club dinners 
have emanated from the clever pencils of these two 
ofentlemen. 

Science is well represented, and not the least con- 
spicuous member is Gordon A. Salamon, F.C.S., who 
stands in the front rank of his profession, and holds a 
high place in the esteem of his brother Savages. Mr 
Salamon is a big-hearted man who never lets his right 
hand know what his left does. And another Savage 
of the good old sort, whose hand I am always proud 
to shake, is Mostyn T. Pigott, M.A., B.C.L., who is 
also one of the ready versifiers, an eloquent and 
impressive speaker, with a caustic but kindly wit, and 
a great power of brilliant repartee. 

Mr Pigott is a contributor to many of the leading 
papers, including The World, and as he is still youthful, 
he may yet do great things. I asked him to write me 
a few lines for this chapter of my book, with the follow- 
ing result : — 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

TO J. E. MUDDOCK 

On bang asked for some Verses 

You ask for some lines, 

Say twenty or so ? 
With no fell designs 
You ask for some lines. 
No Savage inclines 

To answering no. 
You ask for some lines, 

Say twenty or so? 

With what shall I deal ? 

My mind is a blank, 
My five senses reel. 
With what shall I deal ? 
If I'm imbecile 

Yourself is to thank. 
With what shall I deal ? 

My mind is a blank. 

Please take will for deed — 

Accept it as such. 
For mercy I plead. 
Please take will for deed, 
Since triolets need 

Not mean overmuch. 
Please take will for deed 

Accept it as such ! 

I am sorry I caught my friend at a moment when 
his mind was a blank ; it is not often so. But still, 
coming from a blank mind, the above are creditable. 

Mostyn Pigott was born in the year Well, as will 

be seen, he hasn't yet got over the irresponsibilities of 
youth, though he has had the measles, and has cut his 
wisdom teeth. He is a Westminster boy, was a member 
of University College, Oxford, and came out with 
honours in Classics and Law. He is an M.A. and a 

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B.C. L. He was called to the Bar with a scholarship, 
thcHioh has hardly practised at all, but has coached 
pupils for Bar exams, and passed a lar^e number 
through. However, although he may be an orna- 
ment to Law, Literature, which is infinitely better 
than Law, has claimed him ; thank goodness, and 
the Law may oo hani^. It sha'n't have our Mostyn. 
As far back as 1892 he founded and edited The 
/sis, which is still the leading under-graduates' paper 
in Oxford. Me has composed and written a great 
number of humorous songs and political squibs. His 
verses are excruciatingly funny, but his handwriting 
is vile. It is said that he dare not enter the compos- 
ing-room of any magazine to which he contributes, as 
the compositors have vowed to slay him on sight. His 
caligraphy would almost drive Sir Wilfrid Lawson to 
drink. How is it these men of (jenius will write such 
villainous hands ? No compositor has ever threatened 
to kill me. However, he is such an excellent fellow 
that I forgive him for his execrable scrawls, and am 
proud to be able to call myself his friend. Mostyn is 
the right sort of Savage, and upholds the best 
traditions of the Club. 

I am afraid I should be guilty of an unfriendly act, to 
use a diplomatic phrase, if I omitted some reference to 
genial Colonel A. Bosworth, a soldier and a gentleman. 

Before he became a Colonel knowledge was drilled 
into him at King Edward VI. Grammar School, 
Birmingham. The drilling operation seems to have 
been very successful, and in due time he was rewarded 
with a real steel-cutting sword and an eye-glass. I 

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wish I could persuade him to wear a glass in the other 
eye ; but no, these handsome fellows won't. They 
say that with one glass they see all- that they want to 
see ; if they wore two they might see things that 
would shock them. From this I am led to infer that 
the monocle may be taken as an indication of a highly 
sensitive nature. Nevertheless, the Colonel has done 
things. He edited The Broad Arrow ; he has con- 
tributed much to contemporary literature ; he founded 
the Roehampton Military College more than twenty 
years ago. During the South African campaign he 
commanded the 2nd Provisional Battalion, Aldershot, 
and he now commands the respect and esteem of his 
brother Savages, in spite of his being an ardent (not 
a hardened) motorist, and the owner of a swell motor 
car, which, of course, makes him beastly respectable. 
He's a Bohemian all the same. He has shot elephants 
in Ceylon, and similar fearful wild fowl in other parts 
of the world. 

Another old and popular member of the Club is 
Thomas Catling, who after fifty years of faithful 
and devoted service to Messrs .Lloyd of newspaper 
fame has recently retired, and been publicly feasted 
and testimonialed. For a great many years Mr 
Catling occupied the position of editor of Lloyds 
Weekly Newspaper, with infinite credit to himself, 
and profit to the great firm he represented. During 
his long editorial career he has known all the leading 
lights in Literature, Science, and Art of his day, and 
he is a walking encyclopaedia of the events of the last 
fifty years or so. Moreover, he has travelled far, seen 

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much, and has had many interesting experiences. Mr 
CatHng was elected a member of the renowned Club 
in April 1873, and in January 1876 he was elected 
honorary auditor, a position he has held ever since. 
The accompanying photograph of Catling was taken 
about the time of his election to the Club, and though 
he has grown older since, he is the same handsome, 
genial, generous Savage as of old. Long may he live 
to enjoy his well-earned repose after upwards of half- 
a-century of strenuous life. 

It is good sometimes to see ourselves as others see 
us, therefore I am gratified in being able to reproduce 
my portrait according to Mr Tom Browne, on whose 
shoulders the mantle of poor Phil May has fallen. 

That T. B. has successfully delineated my pose, 
my aggressive mien, and the graceful hang of the 
nether garments, will, I think, be admitted by all who 
know me. The distinguished artist, Edwin A. Ward, 
led me to believe that his likeness of my humble 
person was a good one, but I am evidently conspicuous 
by little physical peculiarities which Mr Ward over- 
looked and Browne has seen ; which of these two 
eminent men is correct I must leave others to decide. 
On such a delicate subject I can offer no opinion. 
Browne is as good a Savage as he is a good artist. 
That he is the first is the opinion of the whole Club ; 
that he is the second is proved by his world-wide 
reputation. For a young man to have made a great 
name and fortune before he has hardly reached mid-life 
is something to be proud of. That Tom Browne is ab- 
surdly young and beastly good-looking will be gathered 

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from the very excellent photograph which is reproduced 
below. He is at work on a Dutch picture (he has a 
weakness for things Dutch), which I suppose he trans- 
ferred to some collector for a paltry few thousands. 

Tom Browne, like Phil May, was not born to riches. 
He hails from Nottingham, and Nottingham may well 
be proud of him. That some day his native town 
will put up a statue of him there isn't a doubt. His 
youth was a struggle with poverty and adversity ; but 
talent cannot be hidden under a bushel. At one 
period he was an errand boy to a firm of milliners in 
his native place ; he inadvertently hit the boss in the 
eye with a lump of orange peel, which was intended 
for another boy, and was promptly kicked out. This 
proves that T. B. was not in those days a good shot. 
He is now, for he belongs to a crack Yeomanry corps. 
Art is to be congratulated, for thanks to that little 
incident he betook himself to a lithographer, with 
whom he worked for a whole year for the munificent 
wage of nothing a week. During that period he 
must have lived on air, as the chameleon is said to do, 
and when at the age of fifteen he apprenticed himself 
to another firm of lithographers, and began with a 
shilling a week, he no doubt felt passing rich. And 
what of his thoughts when at the age of seventeen 
he sent a comic sketch to a London weekly and 
promptly received thirty shillings for it.'' He does 
not tell us what he did with that unexpectedly ac- 
quired wealth, but it is on record that it stirred his 
zeal ; he resolved to become a black and white artist 
and a painter. His resolve has been carried out. 

300 




J. "El. MuDDo 



To face page 300. 



Tllli AUTHOK, ACCORDING TO TOM HKOVVNK 

"Oh! wa<l some power tlic K'f'ii; H''<-' us, 
Tac see oorsels as ithers see us." 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

His black and white work is known everywhere, and 
he has been a pretty constant exhibitor at the Royal 
Academy since 1897. In 1898 he was elected a 
member of the Royal Society of British Artists, and 
three years later had the honour of being admitted to 
the charmed circle of the Royal Institute of Painters 
in Water Colours. How many millions of money 
have flowed into his coffers since then I must not 
state lest the income-tax people come down upon 
him. They are so precious sharp are those people 
when a fellow makes another hundred thousand or so 
a year. Being so ridiculously young, he was not 
enrolled among the immortal Savages until seven 
years ago, but to-day he is by no means the least 
prominent of them. He has in him the stuff that 
intellectual Bohemians are made of, and there can be 
no question about his popularity. He has travelled 
extensively, seen much, and learnt a lot. Kudos has 
come to him, though it hasn't spoilt him. Tom 
Browne puts on no side, but is a lovable, genial, 
gentle Savage. He will caricature his bosom friend — 
he cannot help it ; but he has never been known to 
scalp his enemy : that may be due to the fact that he 
has no enemy. Tom Browne is a humorist. Humour 
is the very quiddity of his art. He would take liberties 
with the Equator, and turn Death itself into a joke. 

Of course among the Savages there are wizards and 
what nots. Wizards who do uncanny things, and make 
your hair rise. There's Charlie Bertram, for instance. 
Look at him. 

But fancy a professor of the Black Art in a stove 

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pipe hat! It is perfectly ridiculous ! Probably he wears 
it to deceive people ; he's always deceiving people, 
and then coolly exclaims: "Isn't it wonderful?" I 
verily believe he would deceive his dear old grand- 
mother by turning her into a white cat, and making 
her believe she was a swan. I said to him one day : 

"Charlie, is it true you have sold your s " 

" No, no ; on my honour, old fellow, it isn't," he 
interrupted in an excited, perturbed way. " It's really 
too bad that such reports should be spread about. Of 
course, people think I have, but I haven't. I am quite 
a good man ; I am indeed, and would scorn to have 
anything to do with him " 

"With whom?" 

'• Why the d " 

"What arc you jabbering about, Charlie? I was 
going to ask you, when you interrupted me, if it's true 
that you've sold the solid gold diamond studded casket 
presented to you by the Maharajah what's his name, 
and bought a palace ? " 

" Oh ! " he exclaimed cheerfully, and drawing a sigh 
of relief. "The fact is, my friend King Wooloomoo- 
loo took a fancy to it. and I presented it to him. You 
see, a trille like that gold box isn't worth con- 
sidering by a magician." It is evident that authors 
are not in it with wizards when it comes to a question 
of making money. But then Charlie has been twice 
round the world. He travelled from one end of India 
to the other, and has been entertained by kings and 
queens, maharajahs and ranees, and a perfect host of 
minor swells. He has entertained the Kino and 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

Queen of England and members of the Royal family, 
a score or so of times, and done other clever things. 
He was once oroing- to give an entertainment before 
the officers of the Hon. A. C. and their friends. He 
asked me to go with him, and I went. He said I 
could assist him, and I did. He promised me he 
would make a wizard of me and I should then be able 
to earn thousands, but he didn't. The assistantship 
consisted of my holding a pack of cards. They dis- 
appeared out of my hand, and I didn't know they had 
gone. He said I was a duffer, and I wept. " Never 
mind ; don't weep," he whispered sympathetically ; 
" I'll find them." He did. He found them in the 
Colonel's top-boot. I'm sure I didn't put them there. 
All he said was : " Isn't it wonderful ? " 

With a view to my becoming a wizard, he tried to 
teach me a marvellous trick with ten pennies. *' It's 
quite simple," he remarked, with his bewizardingsmile. 
" You hold them like this. See. Then you lay them 
down thus. You next place them in a row, then you 
make the first one last, next put the last where the 
fourth and fifth are, and dexterously place the third 
under the second, bringing them altogether, and you'll 
find instead of ten there are six. And there you are. 
It's so easy, a child can do it. Now try." I did, and 
there I was, but I didn't do the trick. He said I 
hadn't brains enough to be a wizard, and he gave me 
up as a bad job. " You are not angry.'* " he asked. 
" No," I said; " I'm humbled." 

"Well, never mind, old fellow. We can't all be 

wizards, and to show there's no ill feeling, let us 

303 



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And we did. Since the above was written my poor 
friend has gone over to the majority. Mr Charles 
Bertram died on the 27th of February of current year 
(1907), to the great regret of a very wide circle of 
friends. He was deservedly popular in the Savage 
Club, and will be greatly missed. 

As for David Devant, who has joined interests 
with that other professor of the Black Art, Maskelyne, 
he has kept me awake o' nights. He smiles so 
sweetly, too, while he deceives you. He showed me a 
barrel. It had neither top nor bottom ; you could 
see right through it. He put it on a trestle in a full 
blaze of light. He put a piece of tissue paper on the 
top and a piece on the bottom. In the blinking of an 
eye a real live old man broke through the tissue 
paper, and came out of the barrel. How did he get 
in ? Don't ask me. All that I know is there was a 
strange smell of sulphur in the air, and I am sure that 

the old gentleman had cloven But there, why 

should I pursue the subject ? David Devant is a free- 
born Briton, and can do what he likes with his own. 
Look at his portrait. 

Anyone can see he is a magician. Note well his 
weird eye. Of course, he has two eyes in his face, 
and each one is weird. Then he has an eye at the 
back of his head. You don't see that, but what he 
sees with it is simply marvellous. The portrait is 
that of a very young, good-looking man. Why are 
all magicians good-looking ? My own private opinion 
is that David is about a hundred years old, but has 
discovered the secret of perpetual youth. He is a 

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li^ht now in the " I Ionic of Mystery." In his own 
home, where there is no mystery, he and his other 
[)artner entertain their friends with princely hospitality, 
and i^ive them a hi^h old time. 

There is another wizard in the Club capable of 
doinjr uncanny things in the j)erson of Robert 
Ganthony, a member of a clever and distinguished 
family which includes Miss Nellie (ianthony, and 
Richard (ianthony of A Mcssai^c from Mars fame. 
Robert combines with his powers of wizardy the 
art of ventrilocjuism, and an inventive faculty that 
has enabled him to initiate some very startling 
illusions, lie has travelled extensively; been enter- 
tained by, and has entertained, royalty ; and was 
I)rivileged to accomj)any the late W. E. (iladstone 
round Europe in the l^antallon Castle as magician-in- 
ordinary, and professor of the Black Art extraordinary. 
There is a funny little story in connection with that 
trip which I don't think has ever been told before in 
()rint. One: c:vening after dinner, just as the vessel 
was steaming out of a Norwegian port, the party in 
the saloon were startled by a child's screams proceed- 
ing from one of the cabins. Instantly there was a 
scene of consternation, and a rush was made for the 
cabin, but the door was found to be locked. ThcMi a 
gruff voice was heard in the cabin threatening to cut 
the child's throat if it didn't keep quiet. The cries 
of terror from the child became louder than ever, and 
Mr (jladstone showed great concern. The key of 
the door was called for. The steward came, but had 
no knowledge of the key. The cries increased, 
u 305 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

More excitement. " For God's sake break open the 
door," exclaimed somebody; and carried away by his 
feelings, a stalwart member of the party applied his 
broad shoulders with such good effect that the door 
flew open, and the cabin was found to be empty. At 
the same time Robert Ganthony was observed 
stealthily quitting the saloon. The scare was complete 
while the excitement lasted, and the laughter hearty 
when the guests learned that they had been sold. 
Ganthony certainly scored a point there ; he has also 
scored as the author of several humorous works, and 
three or four comedies, the most successful perhaps 
being Uncle Jack. Mr Ganthony is an old member 
of the Club, having joined in 1884. 

I once heard an irresponsible person aver that 
savages didn't live long. I don't know what savages 
he meant, but in our coterie we have some pretty 
ancient ones. Manuel Garcia who only departed 
from amongst us last year (1906) was a hundred. 
Tegetmeier, and Lai Brough, two of the founders of 
the Club still remain, and the first named youth is only 
ninety-one. Tegetmeier, W.B., F.Z.S., is a naturalist, 
a journalist, and was a friend of Darwin's. He has 
had a distinguished career, and what he doesn't know 
about natural history isn't worth learning. And it is 
only natural that he should love the old Club whose 
birth he attended. 

I often wonder what the Club would do without 
•• The Colonel." Here is his portrait from a drawing 
by the late Paul Frenzeny. 

Lieutenant- Colonel Rogers ; Ebenezer Rogers, if 

306 





o 

X 

z 
< 
o 

w 

O 



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you please, and he hails from Ould Olreland. Fancy 
an Irishman being labelled " Ebenezer." However, if 
our Colonel had been named Beelzebub we should 
still have loved him. As the portrait shows, the 
Colonel is old and grizzled, as becomes a colonel who 
has seen many years of service in the tropics. How 
old he is it is difficult to say, but he numbers 
his years by scores, is as tough as India-rubber, and 
has the vigour of a youth of thirty. He is a champion 
fluker — indeed, has reduced fluking at billiards to a 
fine art — and there isn't a man in the Club can come 
near him. Then his sense of humour is keen, as be- 
comes a man of the Emerald Isle. He tried his 
humour on the Committee not long ago, but that time 
he didn't score, I should explain that if a brother 
Savage dies in any part of the British Islands a 
wreath is sent in name of the Club to be deposited on 
the coffin. As the Colonel does not seem like shaking 
off this mortal coil for another score of years yet, and 
as he could not see what possible use the wreath 
would be to him when he was dead, he applied to the 
Committee for the value of it. In a characteristic 
letter he said : 

" I am willing to forego the floral tribute in favour 
of purchasing a pipe to be played for in a billiard 
handicap on behalf of the fund now being raised for 
orphans of actors. Might I therefore be allowed to 
discount the future to this small extent ? " 

In due course he received the following reply from 
the secretary : — 

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, Pages from an Adventurous Life 

" The Committee considered your letter yesterday, 
and on the whole they prefer to send you a wreath.'' 

Despite his sense of humour, the dear old sinner 
is still racking his brains to understand the precise 
meaning of the italicised sentence. "What could I 
do with it if I had it?" he remarked. *' I couldn't 
pawn it, and I couldn't preserve the bally thing in 
water until I'm dead." 

" Of course not," replied a sympathiser ; "though you 
might preserve it in Irish whisky. Anyway, don't 
you die, Colonel, just to please the Committee." 

" No ; I'll see them in Jericho first," roared the 
Colonel ; and the glasses jumped as he banged his 
fist on the table, and then to solace his wounded 
feelings he ordered in a jorum of his special brew. 

I for one hope that the Committee will not be called 
upon to buy a wreath for many a long day to come. 
Of course, our Colonel can tell some very funny yarns 
that require a lot of digesting. Indeed, some of the 
Colonel's yarns have been known to upset his listeners 
for a week at a time, and on more than one occasion 
the victim has threatened to tomahawk him. But 
his highly polished pate, his broad smile, and general 
geniality always disarm wrath, and the victims, like 
Oliver Twist, ask for more. 

I should like much to particularise other of my 
friends among the Savage brotherhood, but I am 
afraid that were I to do so I should very far exceed 
the limits of the space at my disposal. It is but 
reiteration for me to say that the " Savage " is a Club 

308 




PINHOKN WOOD (Artist). 
From Frenzeiiy's Sketch-book. 



To face page 308. 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

of which any man may well feel proud of being a 
member. I myself regard it with an affection I can 
hardly express. Of course, and of necessity it must 
be so, the Club has undergone a process of change as 
its age has increased, and the old Bohemian spirit 
which was so dear to its earlier members seems in 
danger of ultimately being replaced by a conven- 
tionalism which in my opinion is most undesirable 
in such an institution. Naturally, the modern young 
man has different ideas from the young man of half-a- 
century and more ago. But in spite of the strenuous 
life we lead, and the feverish desire nowadays to be 
considered somebody, I would appeal to the love of 
intellectual freedom si qua est of the newer generation 
to preserve as a precious heritage the best traditions 
which brought the Club together and has held it 
together so long. There is a Bohemianism recog- 
nised by literature and art which aims at all that is 
beautiful, noble, and true, which scorns littleness and 
commonplaceness, which hates snobbishness, and de- 
tests the huckstering spirit of the mere "cheap Jack." 
That is the Bohemianism I have loved and tried to 
cultivate, and it is the Bohemianism which, I trust, will 
be upheld and honoured by all who affect the cult of 
the dignity of letters and the beauty of art. It is the 
Bohemianism that has been, and must continue to be, 
the principle, the life, the very soul, of the Savage 
Club. Destroy that Bohemianism and the exclusive- 
ness and unique character of the Club will go with it. 



309 



CHAPTER XI 

I visit La Grande Chartreuse, and have a weird experience — A visit to the 
Grotto de Ste Baume in Provence — A send-off dinner — A trip to 
the West Indies — Dick Donovan's books — Amusing incidents — 
An explanation — The universal demand for the detective story — 
The late Prince Bismark a great reader of Donovan's books — 
The butcher and the artist : a story with a moral. 

Recent events in France, which have led to such a 
pitiable quarrel between Church and State, have 
recalled to my mind a visit I paid years ago to the 
lonely and romantic monastery of the Grande Char- 
treuse. It was some time before the monks were 
expelled from the old home and driven to seek 
shelter and hospitality in Spain. That visit is an 
incident in my life which will possib^y be read with 
interest at this time, for it led to my witnessing the 
strange and weird ceremony of midnight mass, which 
a visitor very rarely indeed had the opportunity of 
doing. As a matter of fact, it was altogether unusual 
for a stranger to be allowed to pass the night in the 
monastery at all. Unlike the Great St Bernard, 
where I have stayed two or three times, the Chartreuse 
was not a show place. 

On the occasion I refer to, it chanced that I was 
rambling in the neighbourhood of Grenoble, and as I 
had long yearned to learn something about the lives 
of the Chartreuse monks, I resolved to visit the 

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monastery. Moreover, I was told that the day was 
not far distant when the monks would be driven forth, 
as they had been driven forth on a previous occasion. 
But then in due time they had returned ; if they were 
expelled again the chances were they would come 
back no more. This determined me to crave their 
hospitality, rather, if I may venture to say so, as a 
reverend pilgrim, instead of a visitor actuated by 
curiosity only. In detailing my experiences I write in 
the present tense, but the reader does not need to be 
reminded that the monks are no longer there ; and the 
monastery, empty and deserted, stands as a monument 
in the dreary mountain solitude, of the influence and 
tremendous power of faith over the minds of men who 
have shrunk from the defiling influences of the world. 
They now have a new monastery at Tarragona. Above 
the door of every cell occupied by a monk of the silent 
order of Carthusians, is inscribed this legend : 

La vie d'un bon Chartreux doit etre, 
Une oraison presque continuelle. 

To pray always for those who never pray, to pray 
for those who have done you wrong, to pray for those 
who sin every hour of their hves, to pray for all sorts 
and conditions of men, no matter what their colour, 
no matter what their creed, to pray that God will 
remove doubt and scepticism from the world, and 
open all human eyes to the way of faith and salvation. 
Such is the chief duty of the Chartreux. That the 
lives of these men is a continual prayer would seem 
to be an undoubted fact, but they are more than that 

3" 



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— they are lives of silence, that must not be broken, 
save under exceptional circumstances. Time has been 
when they were surrounded by their families, their 
friends, when perhaps they had ambitions like other 
men, hopes like other men, and, it may be, have 
given their love to women. But then something 
has happened to change the current of their lives, 
the course of their thought : the mundane world has 
become distasteful, and with heavy hearts and weary 
feet they have sought the lonely monastery, and, 
having once entered, the door has closed upon them 
for ever. Henceforth the horizon of their world is 
the monastery wall ; and the only sounds they will 
hear save the wind when it howls, or the thunder 
when it rolls, are the eternal tolling of the bell, and 
the wail and chant of the monotonous prayers. It 
is difficult to understand how men, young, rich, well- 
favoured, can seclude themselves in this busy and 
wonderful age ; and, renouncing all the pleasures 
and gaiety of the world, take upon themselves solemn 
vows of chastity and silence, which, once taken, are 
devoutly kept. To God and God's service they 
dedicate themselves ; and though on the earth, they 
are scarcely of it. They live as human beings, but 
for them it is the beginning of eternity ; the passion 
and fret of the world will never more disturb them, 
and their one longing is to change the finite for the 
infinite. It is surely no ordinary faith that impels 
men to enter into a living death of this kind, nor is 
it fanaticism, but a devotion too deep for words, too 
mysterious for ordinary comprehensions to grasp. 

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One must go back to the eleventh century for the 
beginning of the history of this strange Order. It 
was founded by St Bruno of Cologne, who imposed 
upon his votaries "Solitude," "Silence," and "Fast- 
ing." For nearly eight hundred years the Carthusians 
have been true to their saint, and wherever they have 
established themselves they have lived their lives of 
silence, knowing nothing of the seductive and tender 
influences of women, or the love and sweetness of 
children ; dying, when their time came, without a 
pang of regret at leaving the world, and with nothing 
to perpetuate their memories, save a tiny wooden 
cross, on which a number is painted. But in half-a- 
dozen years or so the cross rots away, is never 
renewed, and the dead brother is referred to no 
more. 

The lonely convent of the Grande Chartreuse is as 
old as the Order, although it has undergone consider- 
able change and been extended in modern times. It is 
now a great building standing in a meadow, occupy- 
ing a considerable extent of ground ; but originally 
it must have been a single small house, or rather a 
group of small houses or cells, each one occupied by a 
monk. It stands in a defile, in a region of utter 
loneliness, which has been described as one of the 
most ghastly, bleak, and drear regions in all Europe, 
in which man has pitched his habitation. Gradually 
it has grown and expanded, and as if to protect it 
against the attacks of thieves and marauders, it is sur- 
rounded by a massive wall that is loopholed and em- 
brasured. But why this wall was built is difficult to say, 

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for these monks would never take human Hfe, not 
even to save their own. So far, however, as I have 
been able to learn, there is no record of the convent 
having- been seriously attacked during any period of 
its history. But in the Revolution of 1793 the monks 
were cruelly expelled, their most valuable library was 
destroyed, and their lawfully acquired property con- 
fiscated. They separated in little groups, and found 
refuge in holy houses of their Order in diti'erent parts 
of Europe (to them the London Charterhouse owes its 
origin), until the restoration of 1S15 — that memorable 
year — when they reunited and returned to their 
beloved monastery amid the solitude of their eternal 
mountains, but no longer as absolute owners of that 
of which they had legitimately possessed themselves. 
It was now the property of the State — that is, it 
was State plunder — and the poor monks were allowed 
to domicile themselves once more, subject to the pay- 
ment of rent. The extensive forests round about 
which had been planted by the Carthusians were 
taken from them. 

La Grande Chartreuse is situated amidst scenes of 
savage grandeur, 426S feet above the sea, at the 
foot of the Mont Grand Som. which reaches a height 
of 666S feet, and commands a view of surpassing 
magnificence. It is in the Department of Isere, 
France, and about 14 miles north from Grenoble, 
which is the capital of the Department, and famous 
for its gloves. The nearest railway station is a five 
hours' journey away, and there is no other human 
habitation within miles of the convent. The ap- 

3H 



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preaches are by wild and rugged gorges, through 
which excellent roads have of late years been made, 
but formerly these gorges might have been held by a 
handful of men against a host. In the winter the roads 
are blocked with snow, and between the lonely con- 
vent and the outer world there is little communication. 
In summer the pine woods look solemn and dark, and 
the ravines are filled with the music of falling waters. 
There is a strange absence of bird melody, and the 
wind sighs weirdly among the pines and moans 
around the rocks. And yet the region is one of 
entrancing beauty, and full of a dreamy repose that 
conduces to a contented and restful condition of mind. 
To this lonely convent I travelled one day in the 
late autumn, when the falling leaves spoke sadly of 
departed summer glories, and the shrill blasts that 
came down the glens were messengers from the 
regions of ice and snow. I had gone by train to 
Voiron, between Rives and Grenoble, and thence 
had tramped through the beautiful gorges of Crossey 
for five hours. The afternoon had been sullen, and 
bitterly cold, and the shades of night were fast falling 
as, weary, hungry, travel-stained, I rang the great 
bell at the convent gate, and begged for hospi- 
tality. A tall, cowled monk received me, but uttered 
no word. He merely made a sign for me to follow 
him, and, closing the gate and shooting the massive 
bolts, he led the way across a court, where I was 
met by another monk, who was allowed to break 
the rigid vow of silence so far that he could inquire 
of strangers what their business was. He asked me 

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if I desired food and rest. On my answering in the 
affirmative he led me lo a third and silent brother, 
and bv him I was conducted to a cell with white- 
washed walls, h contained a small bed o\ unpainted 
pine wood, and a tinv table, on which was an iron 
basin and a jug oi water. A crucifix huno- on the 
wall, and beneath it was a />ni-du'N. The cell was 
somehow suoi^estive o\ a prison, and yet 1 am not 
sure that there was as much comfort to be found 
in it as a prison cell aftbrds in these humanitarian 
times. Evervthiui^ about the Grande Chartreuse is 
of Spartandike simplicity. There the body is morti- 
fied for the soul's sake, and nothing- that could pander 
in the least degree to luxurious taste is allowed. As 
I was to learn afterwards, even such barren comfort 
as is afforded by this "Visitors' Cell " is unknown 
in the cells occupied by the monks. 

When I had somewhat freshened myself up by a 
wash. I went into the corridor where my attendant 
was waiting, and, following him in obedience to a 
sign he made. I traversed a long, lofty, cold piissage, 
with b.ire walls and tloor. At the end of the passage 
there was carved in the stone the Latin inscription, 
Stat Cf'}4A' dum voh'itur orbis. Passing through an 
arched doorway we reached the refectory. The great 
hall or supper-room was cold, barren, and disniiU. 
Evervthing looked ghostly and dim in the feeble 
light shed by two small swinging lamps, that seemed 
rather to emphasise the gloom than dispel it. Com- 
fort there was none in this echoing chamber, with 
its whitewashed walls and shadowy recesses, from 

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which I half expected to see the spirit forms of dead 
monks glide. Taking my seat at a small, bare table, 
a silent brother placed before me a bowl of thin 
vegetable soup, in which some chopped eggs floated. 
A small piece of fish followed, then an omelette, and 
the whole was washed down with a bottle of common 
red wine of the country. It was a frugal repast, but 
an epicurean spread as compared with the dietary 
scale of the monks themselves. Meat of every kind 
is rigorously interdicted — that is, the flesh of animals 
in any form. Each brother only gets two meals a 
day. They consist of hot water flavoured with egg ; 
vegetables cooked in oil ; while the only drink allowed 
is cold water. The monks do not eat together except 
on Sundays and religious fete days, when they all sup 
in the refectory. On other days every man has his 
meals alone, in the solitude of his cell, and but a 
brief time is allowed him, for it is considered sinful 
to spend more time in eating and drinking than is 
absolutely necessary to swallow down so much food 
as will hold body and soul together. That men may 
keep themselves healthy, even on such meagre diet 
as that I have mentioned, is proved by the monks 
of the Grande Chartreuse, for they enjoy excellent 
health, and generally live to a green old age. Even 
the weak and delicate grow strong and hardy under 
the severe discipline. The rasping friction of the 
nervous system, which annually slays its tens of 
thousands in the outer world, is unknown here. All 
is calm and peaceful, and the austerity of the life 
led is compensated for by the abiding and hopeful 

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faith. It is a brief preparation for an eternal life 
of unsullied joy in a world where man's sin is known 
no more. Surely nothino else but such a faith could 
sustain mortal beings imder an ordeal so trying. 

This strange community of Carthusians is divided 
into categories of "Fathers" and "Brothers." The 
former wear robes of white flannel, cinctured with a 
double girdle of hempen rope. Their heads and 
faces are closely shaven, and the head is generally 
enveloped in a cowl, which is attached to the [robe. 
They are all ordained priests, and it is to them the 
rule of silence, solitude, and fasting more particularly 
applies. The fasting is represented by the daily bill 
of fare I have given, and it never varies all the year 
round, except on Fridays and certain days in Lent, 
when, poor as it is, it is still further reduced. The 
solitude consists of many hours spent in prayer in the 
loneliness of the cell, and the silence imposed is only 
broken by monosyllabic answers to questions ad- 
dressed to them. Sustained conversation is a sin, 
and would be severely punished. Aspirants for the 
Fatherhood must be orphans, and they have to submit 
to a most trying novitiate, which lasts for five full 
years. Afterwards they are ortlaincd, and from that 
moment renounce the workl, with all its alluring 
temptations aiul its sin. Their lives henceforth must 
be strictly holy in accordance with the tenets of their 
religion. The Brothers are the manual labourers, 
the hewers of wood and drawers of water. They do 
everything that is required in the way of domestic 
service. They wear sandals on their bare feet, their 

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bodies arc clothed in a long, loose, brown robe, 
fastened at the waist by a rope oirdle. On both 
branches of the Order the same severe regime is 
compulsory, but on Fridays the Brothers only get a 
morsel of black bread and a cup of cold water. The 
attention to spiritual duties is all-absorbing, and 
under no circumstances must it be relaxed. Matins 
commence in the chapel at twelve o'clock at night, 
and continue, without intermission, until daylight. 
But all the monks do not attend the matins at one 
time. While some sleep others pray. And it is 
doubtful if amongst the religious orders of the world 
anything more solemn and impressive than this mid- 
night service could be found. To witness it was one of 
my chief aims in going to the convent, and so I left my 
cell after a short sleep, and proceeded to the chapel as 
the deep-toned bell struck twelve with sonorous sounds 
that rolled in ghostly echoes along the lofty corridors. 
The passage through which I made my way was 
a vast one, and a solitary lamp ineffectually struggled 
to illumine the darkness. I groped my way along until 
I reached a door that swung silently open to my touch. 
Then I stood within the chapel, where all was silent, and 
the place seemed steeped in Cimmerian gloom. Far in 
the depths of the darkness was a glimmering, starlike 
lamp over the altar, but its beams, feeble and strag- 
gling, revealed nothing ; only it accentuated the pitchy 
blackness all around. Evervthino- was suofoestive of 
a tomb far down in the bowels of the earth — the 
silence, the cold, the damp earthy smell that filled 
one's nostrils, all seemed to indicate decaying mortal- 

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ity. Suddenly, with startling abruptness, a single 
voice broke into a plaintive, monotonous chant. 
Then others took up the cadence with a moaning 
wail that gradually died away until there was un- 
broken silence again. There was something uncanny, 
strange, almost appalling in this performance, for the 
impenetrable darkness, the starlike lamp, the wailing 
voices of unseen figures, seemed altogether unnatural. 
It begot in me a shudder that I could not repress ; 
the moaning and wailing appeared to be associated 
with death rather than life. There was nothing- in 
the whole ceremony indicative of joy or hope, but 
rather their converse — sadness and despair. Through- 
out those weary hours the wailing chant and the 
silence alternated. I wanted to go away, but could 
not. A strange fascination kept me there, and I 
recalled some of the wonderful descriptive scenes in 
Dant^, which were irresistibly suggested. My 
imaorination was wrought on to such an extent that I 
pictured that vast, gloomy space as filled with unquiet 
spirits condemned to torture ; and the lamp as typical 
of the one ray of hope promising them that, after a 
long period of penance, they should pass from the 
horror of woe to the lightness and joy of eternal day, 
when their anguish would cease for ever, and rest be 
found. At last, to my great relief, I saw the beams 
of a new morn steal in at the chapel windows. The 
bowed forms of the cowled monks were faintly dis- 
cernible, kneeling before the altar, where still burned 
the watch-lamp. One by one they rose and flitted 
away like shadows ; no sound came from their foot- 

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falls, no rustle from their garments. Warmly clad 
though I was, I shivered with the cold, and was 
cramped with the position I had maintained for hours ; 
I had been fearful of moving lest any harsh, grating 
noise should break in upon that solemn and impressive 
silence. When all had gone I, too, went, and made 
my way back to the cell, where I tried to snatch a 
few hours' sleep, but it was in vain, for my mind 
seemed as if it had been upset by a strange and 
terrible dream. Although I have had a wide and 
varied experience of men and manners in all parts of 
the world, I never witnessed such a strange scene 
before as I witnessed that nigrht. It was like a 
nightmare picture, a poem evolved from a distorted 
imagination. I say a poem because it had the 
elements of poetry in it, but it was the poetry of 
ineffable human sadness. 

Truly it is singular that men can so strengthen 
their faith, so enwrap themselves, as it were, in a 
gloomy creed, that they are willing to forego every 
pleasure in life, to shut themselves off from all that is 
joyous and beautiful in the world, in order to submit 
to an endless sorrowing for human sins ; a sorrowing 
that finds expression every hour of their lonely, 
saddened existence. From sunset to sunrise, and sun- 
rise to sunset again, they are warned by the mournful 
tolling of the iron bell, every quivering stroke of 
which seems to say " death," to " pray without ceasing. " 

Many of the monks at the Grande Chartreuse are 
still in the very prime of their manhood, and not a 
few of them are members of distinguished and wealthy 
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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

families. Wn ihoy \va\c renounced cvcMvlliiuj; : all 
the advantages ih.u intlueiux^ aiul \vi\ilti\ could i;ive 
them ; all the eoinKtris o( lunne ; ihe love oi' wile and 
children ; the iaseinalion ot" travel and ot" strange sights 
— every leinpiaticin that this most heaulilul world 
could hold out has Ihhmi resisted, and thev have 
dedicated theniselves to i^looni. tasiino. and silence. 
X'erily. human nature is an unt'athomahK^ mvslery. 
One may well ask it' these monks are truly happy? 
It they have no K>ni;inos tor tlu^ tlesh-pots of Egypt? 
It they do not sometimes pine and sigh for the busy 
haunts and the excitement o[ the great towns ? Such 
questions are not easily answered, unless we get 
the answer in tlu^ fact that the nuMiastic vows are 
faithtuUy and religiously kept ; and there is no record 
ol a Carthusian monk ever having broken his vow. 
Surely then there nuist be something strangely, even 
terribly attractive in that sttTu lite, which is so full of 
hardship and trial, and trom year's end to year's end 
knows no change, imlil the drnoNcnwuf which comes 
to us all. sooner or later, whether we be monks or 
revellers. 

1 have already mentioned that, notwithstanding 
their s[>arse and meagre diet, which seems to us 
ordinary mortals to lack nutriment and sustaining 
povviM-. the monks o'i the drande Chartreuse are 
healthy and vigorous. The Brothers labour in their 
fields and gardens, and they cultivate all the vege- 
tables that they use, as well as grow most o( their 
vnvn corn tor the brc\ul. Tluy do any bricklaying, 
carpentering, or painting that may be required, as well 

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Pages from an Adventurous Life 

as all the washing' and mending of the establishment, 
for a woman is never allowed to enter the sacred 
precincts. The furniture of each cell consists of a 
very narrow bed as hard as a board, and with little 
covering ; a small stove, for the rigours of the climate 
render a fire indispensable at times, and yet the fires 
are used but sparingly ; a little basin, with a jug of 
water for ablutions ; and of course there is the prie- 
dieu and the image of a saint. Attached to the 
convent is a cemetery, which cannot fail to have a 
very melancholy interest for the visitor. It is divided 
into two parts, one being for the Fathers, the other 
for the Brothers, for as the two branches of the Order 
are kept distinct in life, so they are separated in 
death. No mounds mark the last resting-places 
of the cjuiet sleepers ; but at the head of each is a 
wooden cross, though it bears no indication of the 
name, age, or date of death of the deceased — only 
a number. Having played his little part and re- 
turned to the dust from whence he sprang, it is 
considered meet that the Carthusian should be for- 
gotten. The cross is merely an indication that 
beneath moulder the remains of what was once a 
man. 

As is well known, the monks distil the famous 
liqueur which finds its way to all parts of the world, 
and yields a very handsome revenue. The process 
of its concoction is an inviolable secret, but it is 
largely composed of herbs, carnations, as I have 
heard, and young tips of the pines, steeped in cognac. 
It is said that the recipe was brought to the convent 

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o 
by one of the Fathers, who had been expelled in 1792, 
and that at tirst the Hqueur was used as a medicine 
and distributed amongst the poor. In the course of 
time, however, it was improved upon, for its fame 
having spread, a demand for it sprang up, and it was 
resolved to make it an article of commerce. For this 
purpose a separate building was erected apart from 
the monastery, and placed in charge of one of the 
Fathers, who has a staff of Brothers under him. The 
basis of the liqueur is supposed to be an indigenous 
mountain herb combined with the petals of certain 
wild llowers, including, as I have said, the carnation. 
These are macerated with sugar until fermentation 
takes place. The liquid is then refined, and brandy 
is added. Formerly it was made without brandy. 
The "green" is most favoured by connoisseurs, and 
its exquisite, delicate fragrance and llavour have 
never been rivalled. More care is bestowed upon 
the "green" than the " yellow," which is somewhat 
inferior in quality and of a coarser llavour. On 
several occasions very large sums have been offered 
for the right to manufacture the chartreuse by financial 
speculators, but all such offers have met with resolute 
refusals. Although I believe that the greater part of 
the income of the convent is spent in deeds of charity, 
it may be doubted by some people whether it is not a 
somewhat questionable way for a religious Order to 
augment its funds by the preparation of an intoxicat- 
ing liqueur for which, according to their own doctrine, 
there is absolutely no need. The chartreuse has a 
strong rival in the well-known benedictine, made by 

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the Benedictine Monks ; which, while being very 
similar in character, is said by some to be superior. 
That, however, is a mere matter of opinion I think, 
thouofh I have heard it said the chartreuse has the 
larger sale of the two. Many attempts have been 
made from time to time to imitate both these liqueurs, 
but without success, and the exact secret of their 
decoction is as religiously preserved as are the secrets 
of Freemasonry. 

Like the Great St Bernard, the Grande Chartreuse, 
though not to the same extent by a long way, attracts a 
certain number of visitors in the summer, who regard it 
as a sort of show place. It would be a cruel injustice, 
however, to let it be supposed that the Chartreux had 
the slightest desire to make an exhibition of their 
lonely convent. But the travelling facilities afforded 
the tripper nowadays enable him to penetrate to the 
remotest recesses of the earth. No place is sacred to 
him ; what he lacks in intelligence he makes up for by 
vulgarity ; and as he thinks nothing of going into a 
Continental theatre dressed in a tweed suit, so he 
docs not hesitate, garbed in hob-nailed boots and 
knickerbockers, to demand entrance into the Grande 
Chartreuse, whose mystery he does not understand 
and cares naught for, and whose solemnity does not 
awe him. To refuse hospitality even to the irreverent 
curiosity-monger would be contrary to the Car- 
thusian's creed, which teaches charity to all men, 
and to " turn no deaf ear to him who asks for 
bread and succour." And so anything of the mascu- 
line gender is admitted and ((^d with the frugal fare 

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that is now specially provided for visitors ; and very 
properly he who partakes of this hospitality, not being 
in actual want of it, is required to pay for his enter- 
tainment by contributing to the poor-box. But only 
under most exceptional circumstances is a visitor 
allowed to pass the night under the roof of the con- 
vent, therefore that strange and ghostly service 
in the chapel during the hours of darkness is rarely 
witnessed, and that fact has induced me to record my 
own experience. The Grande Chartreuse boasts of a 
magnificent library, which numbers upwards of 20,000 
volumes, for the most part of a theological nature. 
Many of these books are unique and of great age, and 
to the theological student would probably prove a 
mine of wealth. Amongst the volumes are some very 
rare Bibles and prayer-books of nearly every civilised 
country in the world. This library replaces the one 
that was destroyed at the time of the Revolution, and 
has been collected during the present century. 

What is known as the Chapter-room is an exception 
to the rest of the place, inasmuch as it is hung with 
portraits of the Father Superiors from the very 
foundation of the Order. There are about fifty of 
these portaits altogether, and some of the earlier ones 
are more curious than artistic. The "Superiors" are 
the only men of the Order whose memory is thus kept 
alive. 

The Grand Cloister is the largest apartment in the 
building. It is a not quite perfect square, and is 
lighted by a hundred and thirty windows. A portion 
of this cloister dates back to the early part of the 

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thirteenth century. There are two main corridors 
seven hundred and twenty-two feet long, and abutting 
on these corridors are the cells, about sixty in number. 
There is also a Chapelle des Morts, built about the 
end of the thirteenth century. Here the bodies of the 
dead monks rest during the religious services that are 
held over them before they are finally consigned 
to the little cemetery to which I have already made 
reference. Nor must I forget to mention what is 
known as the Map-room, where there is a very 
valuable collection of maps of different parts of the 
world, but particularly of France. There is also a 
small museum of insects and butterflies indigenous to 
the mountains of the region in which the convent 
is situated. That region is the southern group of the 
singularly interesting limestone Alps of Savoy, and 
the convent stands in about the middle section of the 
group which culminates in the Pointe de Chamchaude, 
6845 feet high. 

In choosing the site for the convent, there is little 
doubt that isolation as well as a position of natural 
defence were aimed at. Isolated it truly is, and up to 
a couple of hundred years ago it must have been 
absolutely impregnable. But it is well known that 
the monks of old had an eye also to beauty of sur- 
roundings, and it is doubtful if the faithful followers 
of St Bruno could have found a site commanding a 
view of more magnificent beauty in all France than 
that which the Grande Chartreuse occupies, and by 
ascending to the summit of the Grand Som, which 
throws its shadow over the convent, a panorama of 

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unsurpassed grandeur is unfolded to the wondering 
gaze. To the west it embraces the valley of the 
Rhone, the town of Lyons, and the mountains of 
Ardeche and Forez ; to the east the chain of glittering 
Alps that stretches from Mont Visio to Mont Blanc ; 
to the north is the Mont de Chat of Chambery, the 
Lake of Bourget, and that part of the Rhone Valley 
which is bounded by the rugged peaks of the purple 
Jura, while to the south are smiling valleys and rolling 
uplands. 

This view of the outer world is all the monks ever 
obtain, for, having once taken the vow^s, they leave 
the convent no more ; and they know little of what 
goes on in the busy haunts of men, where the passion 
of life reaches fever heat, save what they gather from 
the chattering of the throngs of summer idlers. In 
winter they live in a silent, white world, and the face 
of a stranger is very rarely seen. 

Before leaving the neighbourhood I paid a visit to 
the Chapelle de St Bruno, which is within half-an- 
hour's walk of the monastery. It is erected in a very 
wild spot, said to be the site of the saint's original 
hermitage. There is nothing particularly interesting 
in the chapel, which is in a state of dilapidation. But 
it is curious to speculate that here dwelt, in what was 
little more than a cavern, the man who, by the 
austerity of his life and his gloomy views, was able to 
found a religious Order which has endured for many 
ages, and is one of the few that escaped destruction 
during the revolutions and upheavals of the last 
century. The situation of the Chapelle is one of 

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singular loneliness and desolation, and for eight 
months at least, of the year it is buried in snow. 

As I turned my back upon the Grande Chartreuse, 
after that memorable night spent under its roof, and 
feeling orateful for the shelter and refreshment it had 
afforded me, the morning sun was gilding the glorious 
landscape, and I breathed a sigh of relief and glad- 
ness, for I seemed to have come from a region of 
sorrow and gloom, where the coldness of death was 
ever present, into the healthy, joyous life of the throb- 
bing, breathing world, with all its wickedness and 
beauty, but a human world. 

Curiously enough, at a later period I was again 
the guest of Carthusian monks, but under very 
different circumstances. I was for long a member of 
the Mont Blanc section of the French Alpine Club, 
and on one occasion, in company with some brother 
members, made a climbing expedition among the Alpes 
Maritimes. Subsequently we tramped into Provence 
on our way to Marseilles, where we were to be enter- 
tained by the Provence Section of the Club. In 
Provence we visited what is known as the " Grotto 
de Ste Baume," situated high up in the face of a cliff, 
reached by a nerve-trying ledge path cut in the rock. 
The Grotto is a huge natural cavern in which there 
are an altar and chapel, and a natural well of holy water. 
To this place pilgrims and enthusiasts come to 
worship in the gloom and icy coldness of the dripping 
cave. Far below is a monastery of the Order of the 
Carthusians. There we were entertained by the 
monks, the repast being presided over by as jolly a 

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monk as one could imagine. His flannel robe and 
the rope round his waist were in strange contrast to 
his rubicund face, ever wreathed with smiles, and his 
rotund figure, which seemed to proclaim him anything 
but an ascetic. This monk was a scholar and a 
gentleman, and, I was assured, a man of exemplary 
holiness of life. 

Towards the end of 1902 I sailed for the West 
Indies on a special mission. I spent Christmas Day 
of that year at sea, and was reminded of the many 
Christmases I had spent under ever varying con- 
ditions of climate and circumstance. I had a delight- 
ful time in the sunlit land of Jamaica, and returned 
home in the early summer of 1903. I was to have 
gone out again, but that very year a hurricane de- 
vastated a portion of the island, and my journey was 
postponed sine die, and now as I write comes the 
news of the destruction of Kingston by a terrible 
earthquake. To me it is fraught with painful interest, 
for I have many friends there, and I have kept in 
touch with the island. In my opinion, Jamaica is one 
of the most beautiful spots in the world, with a winter 
climate that is perfection. To attempt to describe 
its beauty by mere verbal description would be to fail 
to do it justice, and it is sad to think that such a cala- 
mity should have fallen upon it at a time when a new 
prosperity was dawning. There is one consolation, 
however, Nature will soon repair the damage she her- 
self has caused, and I have too much faith in the 
energy and pluck of the Jamaicans to believe that 
they will sit with folded hands mourning over the 

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ruins of their chief town. Kingston will rise from its 
ashes speedily, and though there has been a set back 
to the island's prosperity, it can only be temporary. 
The glorious climate and magnificent scenery will 
assuredly continue to attract visitors and health 
seekers in the future as they have done in the past. 
The voyage there from England is a delightful one, 
and many a despairing invalid who has undertaken it 
has returned reinvigorated, and with a new lease of 
life. Although Port Royal was destroyed by the 
great earthquake of 1692, when there was an enor- 
mous loss of life, there has not, so far as I know, 
been a serious earthquake until the present one. And 
though our poor old earth seems to have gone a bit 
crazy during the last few years, she will probably 
quieten down again ere long, and the wreck and ruin 
her throes and upheavals have caused will become 
merely memories ; while on the Pacific Coast and in 
the Caribbean Sea, where there are now ruin and 
sorrow, tens of thousands of poor mortals will thank 
God for the blessing of life and the beauty of His 
most wonderful world. 

Since my return from Jamaica my wanderings have 
carried me no farther than a hundred miles or so from 
London, and I am afraid I must recognise the fact that 
my travel days are over. I came within an ace of 
going to the Congo not long ago, but the negotiations 
fell through at the last moment, as I did not feel my- 
self free to accept the conditions that were sought to 
be imposed upon me. 

There is yet one other personal matter I want to 

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refer to before linishino my task oi' writing this book. 
It is now prettv wideh^ known that many itf my works 
have been issued under ihe pen nanu^ oi " Hick 
Donovan." but how 1 came lo adopt that ifom lie 
i^ucrn- is only known lo a few. and for vears 1 kept 
the secret well that 1 was Pick Ponovan. When in 
Pundee I bei;an to write for the Messrs Thomson a 
series of stories, the interest oi which centred roimd 
the unravellin^j- oi complicated cases oi crime, and as 
I wanted a pen name, 1 selected that of a How Street 
runner who llourished some lime in the eiolueenth 
centurv. When 1 be^an these stories 1 had no in- 
tention oi coniiniiini; theni beyond a certain nuniber 
which 1 had determined beforehand ; but their success 
was beyond anythiui; that had been anticipated. The 
hrsl series was revised tor book publication and was 
issued in one volume by Messrs Chatto «S: Windiis, 
under the title oi "The Man Hunter," and from that 
moment mv fate was sealed. 1 could \\o\ imn back ; 
1 was lured on bv the cheijue book. 1 freely contess 
my weakness, and hope 1 may be fori^iven. 

One ilav. soon after Chatlo «S: Windus had 
published the third or foiu-lh book. 1 for^^et which it 
was, 1 went iiuo the Sava^^e Club, and met the late 
Henri \"an l.aun. a \ery distinguished literary man 
and linoiHst. 1 was intimate with him. and there- 
fore had wo hesitation, on seeino- .i volume pro- 
jecting; from tlu^ pocket ot a short jacket he was 
wearing", in drawing; the book out, aiul looking" 
at it ; to my surprise 1 found it was a work by 
Dick Donovan, and as 1 knew that \'an Laim 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

reviewed for a " Hii^h- Class " sixpenny weekly, I 
was interested. 

*' What arc^ you doitii^ with this ? " I asked. 

" It has just been oriven to me by my editor for 
review. By the way, who is the idiot who writes 
under that name ? " 

" 1 tlon't know any iilicH of that name," I answered, 
with a sweet and blandlike expression of counten- 
ance. And was I not rioht ? for though I have visited 
Earlswood, the authorities did not detain me. 

"Well, I'm i^oiui^ to smash his book," said Van 
joyfully. 

"Why.?" 

" Why ! because such bally trash as that ought not 
to be printed. If I had my way 1 would order all such 
books to be burnt by the public hangman." 

"What a pity you can't have your own way. It 
would be a splendid advertisement for the author. 
But how do you know it's trash ? You haven't 
read it." 

"No; and don't intend to. Such piflle doesn't 
appeal to me." 

" Then I suppose you are no admirer of Gaboriau, 
De Boisgobey, and other writers of the same class?" 

"Admire them; no, certainly not. To me it's a 
hateful kind of literature." 

"Well, you pulverise that fellow.'*" 1 remarked as I 
handed him back the book. 

" I intend to do so," was his answer. 

And he did. Two or three weeks later the poor 
little volume was slated in his paper. 

333 



Paijcs from an Adventurous Life 

Lono afterwards I went to visit my poor friend 
when he was nearing his end. He was propped up 
with water cushions in a large chair, and as I entered 
the room he shook his fist at me, and exclaimed : 

"You villain, why didn't you tell me you were Dick 
Donovan ? I only learnt it a few days ago from old 
Jones, who came to see me. And only to think that 
the slating I gave you hasn't stopped you from writing 
more. The fact is. you do it for the sake of filthy 
lucre ; you know you do. Vou are incorrigible." 

I assured him that he had accurately gauged the 
depth of my awful depravity, and that I was past 
praying for. 

With a wan smile ho added : 

"A good job for you that I haven't long to live. 
As it is. I give you my blessing. Go on and prosper." 

A few weeks later Henri Win l.aun was dead, and I 
lost another dear friend. There used to be a good 
story told of \'^an Laun apropos to his extraordinary 
gifts as a linguist. He was travelling on the Continent, 
when a very young man and a very young lady got 
into the compartment of the railway train he was 
occupving. They were a newly married couple, and 
began to say the most endearing things to each other 
in French. Presently \'an informed them that as he 
understood French, they might like to be a little more 
reserved. The lady blushed, the gentleman bowed 
politely, and he and his wife conversed in German. 
The same thing happened. They tried Italian, 
Spanish. Portugese, even Polish, but each time Laun 
assured them that he understood their conver- 

334 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

satlon. Then the bridegroom lost his temper, and 
exclaimed : 

"One of two things is certain, sir. either you are 
Henri \'an Laun or the devil." And he and his bride 
changed carriages at the next station. 

Coming back to my Donovan work, I think the 
Catalogues of the British Museum would show a list 
of between forty and hfty volumes under that name. 
And I do not think it is an exaggeration for me to say 
that the sales o{ these works in the aggregate have 
run into large figures. The books have been trans- 
lated into various languages, including the Tamil of 
India. Swedish, and Russian. In connection with 
these works I have received many hundreds of letters 
from all parts of the world. The writers for the most 
part being under the impression that " Dick Donovan '" 
was a real detective. In one instance a lady wrote 
to me from Brighton where she was temporarilv stav- 
ing, and begged that I would place my services at 
her disposal to shadow her husband, whom she sus- 
pected of being not quite as good as he ought to be. 
He had recently gone out to New Zealand, where he 
had some business connections, and she wished me to 
follow him. She informed me that she was wealthy, 
and I could name my own fee. I need hardly say 
that I did not feel myself free to accept her generous 
offer. 

On another occasion a funny little incident happened. 
I was travelling to Holyhead, when two gentlemen 
occupying the same compartment were discussing the 
murder of a young woman on the London and South- 

335 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

Western Railway and the failure of the police to bring 
the criminal to justice. *' The fact is." said one i^entle- 
man. " they haven't i^ot a man at Scotland Yard worth 
his salt. Now 1 know a fellow who would precious 
soon oet on the track of the brute who killed that girl." 

*' Who is that.-* " asked his companion. 

" Dick Donovan, the man who has written a lot 
of works." 

" But he's not a detective." 

"Oh. I beg your pardon. He was for ye.irs in the 
secret service of the Russian Government." 

As it was news to me that I had been in the 
Russian Government Service. I ventured to remark 
that I had read all Dick Donovan's works, and 
thought he was a mere story writer. 

•* His stories are written from experience, sir." said 
gentleman No. i with emphatic decisiveness. " Be- 
sides I happen to know for a fact that he icurs with 
the Russian Government."' 

•' That is most interesting," I remarked. " Are you 
acquainted with Donovan ? " 

" No : but a friend of mine, a member o\' mv club. 
knows him very well, and told me." 

" Would you have any objection to telling me your 
friend's name." 

"Why.^ " demanded my fellow-traveller somewhat 
sternly, as though he suspected me of nefarious de- 
signs against his friend. 

" The truth is I happen to know Mr Donovan pretty 
well myself, and I've never heard him make any refer- 
ence to his services with the Russian Government." 

33^ 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

" Very likely that is due to his modesty. Anyway, 
my friend is intimately acquainted with him. and 
therefore I must accept his information as correct." 

" But I am also acquainted with Donovan," I urged, 
and nearly added " I am Donovan." But my fellow- 
passenger looked at me with a look full o( meaning, 
and with biting irony replied : 

"So you say. sir." with such a decided accent on 
the "you" that I thought it better policy to hold my 
peace. He was a big man, and seemed determined. 

Some time after that I was visiting the Black 
Museum at Scotland Yard in company with a party 
of friends. A policeman had been told off to explain 
the various exhibits to us. when one of my friends 
asked, addressing the guide : 

" By the way, do you know Dick Donovan ? " 

" What, the Russian spy.? " 

" No ; I mean the writer." 

'* Oh. I beg your pardon " 

" Well, let him speak for himself. This is Dick 
Donovan." I blushed, and bowed. Our conductor 
seemed a little confused for the moment, and then 
with a smile of incredulity said : 

" Good joke of yours, sir, but it won't wash." 

I tried to convince him that I was really the person 
know as Dick Donovan, but a wag of the party 
chipped in with the remark : 

" Don't you believe him, policeman ; he's trying to 
have you ; he wants to pull your leg." One of the 
man's eyes half closed, and his face was a study in its 
expression of self-assurance as he replied : 
Y 337 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

" I think, sir, he would have to get up pretty early 
in the morning to have me. I ain't so easily taken 
in as all that." 

" I am sure you are not," said the wag, "and I am 
sure my friend here (meaning me) would have no 
chance with you." Then addressing me with assumed 
sternness, he added : " Look here, Muddock, old chap, 
you'll get yourself into trouble one of these days if 
you persist in your attempt to pass as Dick Donovan. 
And to try it on in Scotland Yard above all places in 
the world is rather risky, you know." 

Since the two little incidents here recorded I have 
had further evidence of the existence of a belief that 
Dick Donovan was at one time in the employment of 
the Russian Government, and I can only account for 
it by the fact that years ago I published a volume 
through Chatto & Windus under the title of "The 
Chronicles of Michael Danevitch," the scenes of the 
various tales being laid in Russia. 

The measure of success which has attended the 
work I have done under the nom de guerre is due, I 
venture to suppose, at anyrate to some extent, to its 
vraiseniblancc. I have carefully avoided making the 
protagonist a self-conscious and impossible prig, 
and in nearly every instance the basis of my plots 
has been recorded facts. 

It is not a little curious that stories of mystery and 
stories of crime should have such a fascination for all 
sorts and conditions of people. And in every civilised 
country there are writers who make a name for them- 
selves by that particular class of literature. Superior 

338 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

persons may tilt their noses at it as much as they Hke, 
but the fact remains, and it is safe to predict that it 
will remain for all time. The late Prince Bismarck 
was a lover of the so-called detective story, and I 
happen to know that he eagerly read that class of 
literature in preference to any other. In the course 
of my wanderings I have often seen detective stories 
in houses where I have least expected them, and not 
lone aeo a well-known archdeacon assured me that 
he derived a great deal of pleasure from the perusal of 
stories of that kind. Notwithstanding this testimony 
to the popularity of detective fiction, I have never been 
in full sympathy with my Donovan work. Over and 
over again I have expressed a determination of doing 
no more, but the voice of the publisher has rung 
in my ears to my undoing, and every writer knows 
how sweet and persuasive the publisher can be. And 
then his cheque-book is a thing to conjure with. Oh, 
that awful cheque-book ! A humble individual like 
myself who has to scribble for his bread and cheese 
must be iron-willed indeed if he can turn a deaf ear 
to his publisher's blandishments, the while his butcher 
and baker and candlestick maker are clamouring for 
their little accounts. These worthy representatives 
of trade have a very poor opinion, I am afraid, of 
the writers of books or painters of pictures. A friend 
of mine, a clever painter, but lacking commercial 
instincts, happened to owe his butcher a paltry 
hundred or so. One evening, when the painter was 
enjoying his humble chop and a pint of excellent 
burgundy, his waiting-maid announced the arrival of 

339 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

the butcher, who said he "must see the master." "Show 
him in," was the command, and in a few moments 
there entered the gentleman of meat, who was also 
a meaty gentleman, for he weighed sixteen stones. 
He was smoking a villainous cigar, and seemed rather 
uneasy at so suddenly and unexpectedly finding him- 
self face to face with his debtor. He had come to 
storm and rage ; he remained to be appeased. 

"What can I do for you, Mr Aitchbone.'*" asked 
the painter sweetly as he continued his supper with 
the utmost unconcern. 

"Well, sir, you see it's this way. I have a heavy 
bill against you, and I'd like to have a bit on account." 

" Sit down, sit ciown, Mr Aitchbone," said my 
friend, with a graceful wave of his delicate hand. 
" I hope Mrs Aitchbone and the Misses Aitchbone 
are well. By the way, I didn't see any of you in 
church last Sunday." 

The butcher opened his eyes. 

" I didn't know, sir, as 'ow you went to our 
church." 

" I don't ; that's why I didn't see you. But you 
were there, of course ? " 

"Oh yes; me and the missus and the gals goes 
regular like." 

" Ah, it's most creditable, most creditable ; shows 
you are good Christian people, and can be merciful 
to the poor. Now, what can I offer you.'*" 

" Well, if you could let me have a cheque for fifty 
on account " 

" No, no ; I mean what will you drink."*" 

340 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

" Nothink, thank you, sir. I never takes anythink 
except a little ale with my meals." 

"Well now, let's be sensible, Mr Aitchbone. You 
see, you are a successful butcher ; I am only an 
artist " 

" Mores the pity, sir, more's the pity, sir," exclaimed 
the butcher, " 'cos yer ain't a bad sort; but hartists 
and hauthors is a poor lot — they never does any good 
for theirselves." 

" In what way ? What do you know about them ? " 

" Well, sir, my father was a hartist, and I 'ad to 
keep him, and I 'ad a brother as use to write books, 
and he was always a borrowing money of me. 
Hartists and hauthors ain't of much use in the world, 
sir. They're so unbusiness-like." 

Mr Aitchbone's views of literature and art are, I 
fancy, the views of a very large section of the com- 
munity, who regard the accumulation of money as the 
only thing worth living for ; while authors and artists 
are looked upon rather as encumbrances, and though 
by the grace of God and the will of the people they are 
allowed to roam at large, they are regarded as being 
more than a little mad. For myself, I had to write ; 
in my own modest way I have managed to keep the 
wolf from the door, and have seen something of the 
world, which possibly I should not have been able to 
do had I been a tradesman. My literary tastes have 
always inclined to historical subjects ; but, unfortu- 
nately, the cry goes up of " Historical Novels don't 
pay," and it rather disheartens one. Notwithstanding, 
I have had a small measure of success in that direction. 

341 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

In these days of rush and stress and keen competition, 
when one's cook and maid of all work write for the 
papers, authorship is by no means a profession that 
should be lightly chosen. The work is hard ; the dis- 
appointments many ; the prizes singularly few, unless 
sinking all self-respect, and ignoring the dignity of 
letters, you blatantly proclaim yourself from the 
house-tops. 

He or she who will do that persistently and on 
every conceivable occasion can defy criticism and 
live in clover. Happily, however, the majority of 
writers, whatever their station, whatever their status, 
are content to be judged purely by their merits, and 
are thankful for such small mercies as may be vouch- 
safed to them. The consciousness of duty done 
faithfully, and to the best of one's ability, in whatever 
calling one finds work to do, gives a sweetness to life, 
and brings a feeling of independence that is better 
than riches. In my own case. I have laboured per- 
sistently ; the record of my industry is to be found in 
the list of books which stands to my credit. I have 
not set the Thames or any other river on fire, but I 
have done something to amuse and entertain those 
who read, and I venture most fervently to hope that 
no one can charge me with ever having written any- 
thinof that hadn't to a ijreater or lesser extent a whole- 
some tendency. Nor have I set myself up as a teacher. 
I leave the many isms and the problems to clever people. 
Long ago I recognised my limitations, and have been 
content to remain a humble plodder, thankful that I 
have been allowed to live ; thankful for the many 

34-' 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

precious friendships it has been my (^ood fortune to 
enjoy ; thankful for the philosophy which has enabled 
me to make the best of thinor.s, and to accept my fate 
cheerfully as it has come to me ; and specially thankful 
for the health and strength with which I have been 
blessed, and for the opportunities afforded me of seeing 
so much of this beautiful world. 

My life may to some people seem commonplace 
enough, but at least it has been varied ; and if my 
story lacks picturesqueness and importance, it may 
perchance possess a psychological interest as illus- 
trating the hereditary tendencies of temperament. 
The dislike to be bound by any hard and fast rules 
of mere conventionalism, and the restless spirit which 
has kept me moving on, have been marked charac- 
teristics of many members of my family on both sides. 
The love of adventure has also been strong within 
them, as it has been in me, and to its possession I 
owe some dramatic moments in my career and one 
or two episodes that are not without interest. If 
there is one virtue to which I dare lay claim, it is 
a strong sense of duty ; and I have endeavoured, 
humbly and modestly, to do my duty as I have under- 
stood it, in spite of difficulty, even of risk. To 
associate with men of prominence, men of informa- 
tion, from whom I could learn something, has ever 
been my aim ; and to this fact I owe much of the 
pleasure I have got out of life, while it has led to 
many close and treasured friendships, which have 
stood the test of time. 

In bringing this narrative of my wandering career 

343 



Pages from an Adventurous Life 

to a close, I am painfully conscious of its defects. I 
undertook it, somewhat lightly I am afraid, but as 
my task has proceeded I have felt the difficulty of 
writing about myself without seeming to be egotistical. 
That very difficulty has caused me to shrink from 
telling many things that I might have told. All I 
can hope is that my faults, and my sins of omission 
and commission, whatever they be, will be weighed 
lightly, and that these rambling notes may prove to 
have some interest for mv readers. 



FINIS 



344 



Index 



A'Becket, Arthur, i6o 

A'Becket, Gilbert, i6o 

Aberdeen Free JWss, Tlie, 139, 141 

About, Edmund, 189 

Abrahams, Dr Phiiieas, 2S4 

Actors' Association, the, 92 

Addison, Justice, 186 

Adelphi Theatre, the, 159 

Aiguille Vert, the avalanche on, 232 

Albany, Uuke of, 195 

Albert Hall, the, 195, 283 

Albert, Prince, at performance by Savage 

Club, 168 
Albery, James, 193 
Aldershot, 298 
Aleppo, 223 

Alexander, Charles, 1 10, 235 
Alexander, Cieorge, 284 
Alexandra, Queen, 132, 136, 195, 302 
Allcorn, Dr, 70, 71 
All the Year Round, 153, 184 
Almond, Douglas, 295 
Alpes Maritimes, the, 329 
Alverstonc, Lord, 167, 283 
Amoy, journey to, 84, 85 
Anderson, " Professor," 51-53 
Angel, Henry, 15S 
Archer, Tom, 154 
Area Belle, The, 159 
Arnold, Charles, 2S8 
Ashley, Mr, 120 
Ashley's Hotel, 160 
Auldjo, Mr, 223 
Azimoola, the Brahmin, 17, 18 

"Baddington Pekuage, The," 152 

Baines, J. W., 266 

Baji Rao, 18 

Baker, Valentine, 185 

Balfour, A. J., 295 

Bancroft, Squire, 160 

" Barchester Towers," 283 

Barnes, E. C, 154 



Barton, Bernard, the Quaker Poet, 48 

Bates, Mr, 74 

Bathurst, 69 

Bazaine, Marshal, 205, 206 

Beaconsfield, life of Lord, 145 

Bedford Hotel, Balham, inquest on Bravo 

at, 129 
Belmore, George, 158 
Belvedere Hotel, Davos, 208 
Bengal, Bay of, 5 
Bennett, Charles, 187 
Bennett, Sir John, 134 
Beresford, Colonel, 103, 104 
Berisal, 232 
Bertram, Charles, 301 
Bhoy, Sir Jamsetjee Jee-Jee, 285 
Biddies, Miss Adelaide, 90 
Billington, John, 158 
Bird, Dr, of Welbeck Street, 233 
Birmingham, 204, 249, 252, 297 
Biron, Mr, 130 
Bismarck, Prince, 339 
Bithoor, Palace of, 17, 19 
Black Forest, the, 206 
Black Gang Chine, the, 260 
Blackwood & Co., 263, 264 
Blanc, Mont, accident on, 231 
Blanchard, E. J., 169 
" Blonde Burlesque Troupe, The," 92 
Bombay, 14, 15, 29, 73 
Bonesson Windermere, 47 
Boot, W. H. J., 293, 295 
Booth, Wilkes, 88 
Bosworth, Colonel A., 279 
Bourget, Lake of, 328 
Botanic Gardens, the Calcutta, 23, 25 
Boulogne, 246 
Boys, Charles Vincent, 154 
Bradford, 261 

Braidwood, New South Wales, 68, 70 
Bramley, E. H., 102 
Bravo, C. D. Turner, 12 1 -125, 130 
Bray, Mr, 130 



345 



Index 



Brighton, 19 

Brigue, 232 

£n\3a .4r'-^'^; T'm, 29S 

*• Broken To)-s," 194 

Brooklyn , 92 

Brooks, Shirley, 104- 170 

" Brother Sams Letter, " 159 

Brough. John, 157 

Brough. Lionel. 157, 306 

Broiigh, Robert, B., 135-159, loS. 169, 

1S7. 195 
Brovigh, William, 157, 16S, 169, 179 
Brougham, John, 160 
Brown, Dr Samuel, 4S 
Browne, Charles Firrar, 17J, 173 
Browne, Tom. 39^-300, 301 
Brunton, William, 105. iii, 152 
Buckingham, James Silk, 4S, 109 
Buckingham. Leicester, 109 
Bulli, Australia, 5S 
Burnaby. Capt:un Frevl. 1S5 
Burnand. Sir Francis, ^5 
Burnett. C. H., 160 
Burrit. Elihu, 4S 
Burton, Sir Richard, 233 
B>Ton. Henr>- J.. 153. 15S, loS, 169, 174- 

179, 1S7, 195. 196 
Bytoell Cast it, the, collision on Thames, J04 

CALCUTTA, 5, 15, 16, 19, 32-34, 26, 37, 30- 

34. 41 
Caledonian Hotel, the, 163, 166, 191 
Calvert, Charles, So-oi 
Cameron, J. A., 197, 199 
Ciimden House, Chislehurst, 147 
Campletown, 5S 
Campion. S. S., iSS 
Canada, ^45. J4S 

Canadian Tacitic Railway, the, 34S 
Cuining, Lord, 16, Z2, 23 
CAnning. Lady, 15 
Cape de Vervle Islands, the, 14 
Carl Ri.->s;i Opera Co. , the, 27S 
Carnarvon. Lord, 224 
" Carols of Cockayne," 103 
Carthusians, the, 313, 314. 31S 
Cate, Mr, 142 
Cawnp^^re. 17. 10, 42. 43 
Central Park, the. New York, SS 
Ceylon, 15. 29. 2ivS 
Chaml>erlsun, Joseph, 279, 294 
Chamouni, 232 

Charjvntier et Cie of Paris, 325 
ChattertoD, F. B., 160 



Chatto Ot Windus, S5, 237, 332, 33S 

Cheshire, Collegiate School. Ii, 14 

Chicago, 92 

Ckiipiric, 1S4 

" Chimes, The," 53 

China. 29, 69. 73 

China Sea. the. 75 

Chislehurst, 147 

Christ's Hospital. 193 

Churchill. Lord Randolph, 295 

Circular Road Cemetery, Calcutta, 3a 

Clare. John. 4S 

Qive. Franklin, 37S 

Coester, J. C, 20S. 210 

<7<vV.-r« r>.Jtr«. Qz 

Collette. Charles, 276 

Collins, Mortimer, i 

Collins, Wilkie. 109, 169 

Colonial and Indian Exhibition, 199 

Colorado. 93 

Combe. Mr, 4S 

Congo, the, 1S2. 331 

Connaught, Duke of. 167 

Continent;!] Press. The, 327 

Copyright Act, the, 272 

Cirnkiil MagasiHty Tht, 153 

CfitvmeJ, Tkt, 102 

Cossipone. 41 

Cotton. Alderman, 1S5 

C.-ttr:y^>umj,\ The, 171 

Cowen. Joseph, 295 

Cox, Mrs. 122. 123. 125 

Coyne, J. Stirling, ipo 

Crimean War. the. iS, 224 

Criterion Restaurant, opening of, 113 

Cross. John, 154 

Cn.\<s, Mr. of Bolton, and terrible accident, 

219-221 
Crown Ta\-ern, the. and Savage Club, 157, 

15S 
Cruikshiink. Georp?. 11 7- 119, 159, 169 
Cui'iS in li\u'T>nj,\ 105 
Czar, the, of Russia, 214 

Daify Jftws, Tke, 133, 137, 141. 222, 225 

Ikafy TeUgrafJky Tkt, 146. 152, 154. 204 

ZkmdGarrici, 180 

Davos Platr, 207. 209-313 

•' Dead in the Desert," 197-19S 

Deal, 234-236 

Delauney, Mons.. 1S9 

Delhi. 10. 23 

Delhi. King of. 42 

De Quincey and Greenheys, 47 



34^^ 



Index 



Denison, A. M., 154 

Derby, Lord, mtuous policy of, 224 

Devant, David, and Magic and Mj-ster)', 

303- 304 
Diamond Harbour. 34, 35 
Diana's Peak, 45 

Dickens, Charles, 53-55, 15-, 153. 169 
Dillon, Charles, 50, 51, 5S 
Z>»j-.v:'.":> , the, zSy 
Dixon, Hepworth, 1S5, 1S6 
D'Oldenhun;. Prince Nicholas, 213-222 
Draper. Edward, 154, 15S. l6S, 169 
Drew, Theodore, 164 
Drury Lane Theatre, 153, 169 
Dublin, 165, 23S-242 
Duff, P. S., 154 
Dum-Dum, India, 41 
Dundee, no, 235-237, 243-245, 332 
Dundet Daily Cifurur, Th£, no, 235, 243 
Dutidie Wukly Ne^s, T/u, no, 235, 243 
Dunraven, Earl of, 160, 1S7 

East India Company, the, 2, 13, iS, 44 

E:ko, Thi, 19S 

Edinburgh, 47 

Ed\v.ird VII., King, 131, 136, 166, 167, 

192, 195, 2n, 302 
Egan, " Barney," 50, 51 
Eg)'ptian Hall, the, 94 
Elliott, Admiral, 131 
Enchantress, the, 136, 137 
E\-an's Hotel, 153, 161 

Falconer, Edmuxp, 15S 

Farren, William, iSo 

Feni;in>, 224. 240, 243 

Fenton, Mr, 33-36, 40 

Feringhees, the, 30 

Field i Tuer, 227-229 

Finlay, Ch;ules Farquharson, 143 

Fire 'Q:teen, the, 131, 133-14I 

Fiske, Stephen, 160 

Flinders, G. A., 154 

Florence, W. J., 162 

F.'^zcer Girl, T?u, at Standard Theatre, 91 

Forbes, Archibald, 132-135, 137, 13S, 140 

Ford's Theatre. Washington, SS 

" For God and the Czas,' 25S, 259 

Fort George, Bombay. 30 

Fort William, Calcutta, 2S 

Fc>r:y Thin-es, The, 16S, 195 

Fra Dieti'olo, 196 

France, Hector, 225, 227 

Franzeny, Paul, 2S9, 291-293, 306 



Eraser, Galloway, and Tit - Bifs, 258, 

259 
Free Trade H.all, the, Manchester, 51, 53 
French, S>Tlney, n3-n5 
Frere, Sir Rirtle, 135 
Frith, Mr, K.A., 1S9 
Fuji, 105, n2, n6, 152, 153 
Funmy Folis, 120 

Ganpagai. New South Wales, 61, 62 

Ganthony, Nellie, 304 

Ganthony, Richard, 304 

Ganthony, Robert, alarms Mr Gladstone, 

304, 300 
Garcia, Manuel, 306 
Garden Reach, Calcutta, 16, 20, 22-24, ^It 

29 
G€ne\-a, 21S-221, 223-22S, 233, 234 
Gen:li!nan' s J\fa^asinf, Thi, 13 1 
Gibbon, Ch.arles, 119 
Gilbert, W. S., 162 
" Gillot and Goosequill," 193 
Gipp's Land, journey in, 61 
Gladstone, W. E., 166, 1S7, 304 
Globe Theatre, 197 
"Golden Heart, The," 112 
" Golden Idol, The," S5 
Gomm, Sir William, 102 
Goodman, E. J.. 154 
Gordon, General, S4 
Gordon's Hotel, 160, l6l, iSl 
Gorst, Mr, 129 
Got, Mons., 1S7 
Gowing, Richard, 131 
Grand'Mulets, the, 231 
Grand Som, the, 327 
Grande Chartreuse, the, 310, 313-329 
Grange Canal, GencN^a, 222 
Grafhu-, The, 294 
Great St Bernard, the, 310, 325 
"Great ^^'hite Hand, The,'' 109 
Greenheys, Manchester, 47 
GreeH.\-c .4J:rr.'iser, Thi, 143, 200 
Gregory, Mr, 4S 
Grenoble, 310-314, 315 
Groome. RegimUd. 279 
Grossmith, Geoi^, senior, 154, 15S, 163, 

164, 1S5. 2S9 
Grossmith, George, junior, 163, 1S5 
Grossmith, Walter, 163, 1S5 
Grosvenor Gallery-, the, 1S5, iSS 
Grotto de St Riume, the, 329 
Gull, Sir William. 124 
Gully, Dr, 122, 123, 125 



347 



Index 



Hall, Dr Spencer T., the Sherwood 

Forester, 47-49 
Halliday, Andrew, 153-160, 16S, 169, 171, 

184, 1S7, 272 
Hamber, Captain, 120, 125, 131 
Hamble, ad%-entures in, 5, 7 
Hamihon &Co., publishers, 229 
Hampstead Road, Cruikshank's house in, 

119 
Hannay, James, 157 
Hardy, Dudley, 288 
Hare, John, 160 
Harker, Mr, 49 

" Harp " Tavern, the, Manchester, 50 
Harrowgate, 2S0 
Harwood, Robert, 50 
Hatton, Joseph, 160 
Havelock, General, 42 
HaverstockHill, death of T. W. Robertson 

at, iSo 
Haxell's Hotel, and Savage Club, 163 
Haymarket Theatre, iSo 
Henderson, James, and Weekly Budget, 

119, 120 
Herman, Henry, 248 
Herschell, Lord, 249 
Hersee, T. , 154 

Hertford Assizes, amusing incident at, 283 
Hewett, General, 22 
Highgate Cemetery, 1S4, 290 
Hill, Harrison, 279, 2S0 
Hingston, E. P., 93-95, 97, 105, 154, 172, 

184 
Hodgetts, E. Brayley, 259 
Hodson, General, 42 
" Hogarth and his Times," 152 
Holland, Miss, 119 
Holland, Philip, 209 
Hollingshead, John, 157 
Holyhead, 335" 
Honey, George, 15S 
Hong Kong, visit to, S7 
Honourable Artillery Co., the, 302 
Hood, Tom, "the Younger," 105, 112- 

116, 119, 152, 153, 159, 184 
Hooghly River, 16, 23, 24, 2il 
Horsman, Mr and Mrs, 49 
Hotel Cecil, the, 275, 2S6 
Hour, The, 120, 121, 125, 126, 130, 140, 

142 
Household Words, 152, 1S4 
Hewitt, Mr, 48 
Howrah, India, 22, 32 
Huggard, Dr W. R., 211 



Hunter River, Australia, 74 
Hutchinson & Co., publishers, 260, 273 
Hyde Park, 10 

Illustrated London News, The, 167, 291, 

294 
Ingram, Herbert, 169 
Irving, Henry, 89, 160, 284, 294 
Irving, H. B., 284 
Irving, Laurence, 284 
Isere, 314 

Isis Magazine, The, 297 
Ivanhoe, 278 

Jamaica, 330, 331 

James, Sir Henrj', 129 

Jamestown, 45 

Jet^erson, Joseph, 89, 90 

Jerrold, Blanchard, 104, 105 

Jerrold, Douglas, 104, 105 

Jhansie, 43 

"John Bull and his Island," 226, 227, 

229 
"John Bull's Neighbour in her true Light," 

227-231 
John Company, the, 16, 18 
Johnston, Herbert, 273 
Johnson, Dr Samuel, 155, 16S 
Joseph, J. C. , 265 
Journal of Laughter, The, 1 57 
Jura Mountains, the, 328 

" Kava," 87 

Kekewich, Justice, 263, 264, 267, 271 

Keltic, Scott, 280 

Kendal, Mr, 160 

Kenny, Charles, 158 

Kenny, James, 15S 

Kensal Green Cemetery, 172, 173, 285 

Ker, Lord Mark, 1S5 

Khan, Nawab Haiaz Ali, 285 

Khan, Nawab Mahomed Aslam, 285 

Kiama, 58 

Kingston, Jamaica, 330, 331 

Kizhbosh, Nawab Ilati All Khan, 2S5 

KnoUys, General, 136 

Knollys, Sir Francis, 192 

Knowles, John, 49 

Labouchere, Henry, 295 

Lancaster House, 166, 191 

Lancon, A., 225 

Landquart, 207 

Landwasser River, straightening of, 207 



34S 



Ind 



ex 



Laun, Henri Van, 105, 154, 1S5-1S7, 232- 

Lawson, Sir Wilfrid, 297 

Lee, Henri, 119, 153, 154 

Leigh, Henry S., 159, 193, 194 

Lemon, Mark, 94, 104, 106, 170 

Lever, Charles, 160 

Le\'>% Jonas, 154, 159 

Lewis, Sir George, and Bravo Case, 129 

Liebig, Mr, 48 

Lincoln, President, assassination of, 88 

Linton, Sir J. D., 2S4 

Litherland, James, 64-67 

Liverpool, 58, 116, 170, 204 

Livingstone, iSi 

L'ail Crh'e, 184 

Lloyds' Weekly Newspaper, 105 

London, 57, 90, 131, 142, 164, 170, 172, 

197, 214, 225 
London, Bishop of, 167 
Londmi Scottish Journal, The, 1 20, 139 
London Trading Bank, the, 205 
Loudon Mountain, 58 
Louth Grammar School, 115 
Lucknow, 43 
Lucy, Henry, 292 
Lyceum Tavern, the, 159 
Lyceum Theatre, the, 16S 
Lyons, France, 328 

Macbeth, in Manchester, 91 

Macclesfield, 13 

Macintosh, James, 290 

Mackay, Joe, 154 

Mackay, Wallis, 154 

MacMorland, Mrs, 208, 209 

MacNeil, Archibald, 246-248 

M'Connell, Walter, 186 

M'CuUogh, John, 162 

M'Fee, Mike, 61 

Madras, visit to, 31 

Maloja, the, 212, 213 

Malabar Hill, India, 29 

Manchester, 2, 7, 9, 46, 53, 57, 64, 90, 

93. 153. 169, 209 
Manchester Examiner and Times, The, 

47. 57 
Manchester Guardian, The, 230 
Manchester Square, 117 
Manfred, in Manchester, 92 
*• Man Hunter, The," 332 
Mapleson, Colonel, 278 
Markham, Miss Pauline, as Hecate, 91 
Marpon & Flamarion, 231 



Marseilles,amusingincidentin,2l4,2l5,329 

Martineau, Harriet, 47 

Martineau, Rev. James, 47 

Maskelyne, Mr J. N. , 302 

Matemunch, 197 

Mathews, Charles, 89 

Matthison, Arthur, 193 

May, Phil, 285-287, 29S, 299 

Mayhew, Augustus, 157 

Mayhew, Henry, 169 

Meeriit, 19, 22, 23, 43 

Melbourne, 61, loi 

Message from Mars, A, 304 

Metz and Bazaine, 205, 

"Michael Danevitch, The Chronicles of," 

338 
Middle Temple, the, 196 
Miller, Joachim, 106 
Millward, Charles, 154 
Mirror, The, 1 19, 120 
Mitford, Mary Russell, 47 
Montanvert, 232 
Mont Blanc, 223, 231, 328, 329 
Monte Carlo, 219, 220 
Mont Visio, 328 
Montgomer}', Walter, 49, 50 
Mont Grand Som, 314 
Morgan the Bushranger, 64 
Morley, John, 294 
Morning Post, The, 276 
Morrison, Arthur, 277 
Mount, Rev. Robert, 172 
Moxon, Arthur, H., 262 
Muddock, Henry Gregson, 200, 204 
Miiller, Max, 213 
Murphy, Mr, 130 

Nan.a. Dhoondu Pant, 17-19, 42, 109 

Nansen, Dr Fridtjof, 167, 280-282 

Napoleon III., 44, 147 

Narrigo, New South Wales, 70 

Needles, the, 131, 136 

Nell Gwynne Tavern, the, 158 

Netley Abbey, 3, 4, 10 

New Britain, the King of, 86 

New Britain, 75, 86, 224 

Newcastle (Australia), 74 

Newcastle Chronicle, The, 230 

New Forest, the, 3 

New Guinea, 75, 86, 224 

New Ireland, 86, 224 

Newark-on-Trent, 180 

Newgate Jail, Old, 56 

Newnes, Sir George, 258-260 



349 



Ind 



ex 



New York, 88, 204 

New York Herald, The, 181 

Nice, residence there, 213, 214 

Night's Adventure, A, play of, 1 80 

Northcliffe, Lord, 295 

Norway, 243, 245 

Not such a Fool as he Looks, 1 97 

Nottingham, 299 

Nunhead Cemetery, 115, 184 

O'Connor, John, 154 
O'Connor, T. P., 145 
Old Bailey, the, 145 
Old Horsemonger Lane Jail, 1 1 1 
Olympic Theatre, the, 180 
Opera Comique, the, 163, 184 
O'Rell, Max, 226, 227 
O'Shea, "Jack," 105 
Oude, the King of, 16, 27-29 
Owen, Sir Phifip Cunliffe, 191 
Oxenford, John, 184 

Pall Mall Restaurant, the, 1S7, 189 

Paris, 152, 228 

Parnell, C. S., 239 

Parry, Sergeant, 130 

Paul, Howard, 174 

Peacock, E. E., 276, 277 

Peckham Rye, 1 15 

Pemberton, Charles Reece, 48 

Pembroke College, Oxford, 115 

Penson, Captain, 27, 28 

Phillips, Watts, 157 

Phoenix Park, Dublin, 242 

Picton, Sir Thomas, 103 

Pigott, Mostyn T., 295-297 

Pike, W. H., 295 

Pirates 0/ Penzance, The, 163 

Pitman, Sir Isaac, 102 

Planche, J. R., 168, 170 

Plymouth, 252, 256, 257 

Poland, Mr, 129 

Police News, The, 1 29 

Pond, Christopher, 105, 113 

Porcupine, The, 172 

Portsmouth, 131, 132, 141 

Port Royal, Jamaica, 331 

Portugal, 142 

Pounds, Staff Commander, 1 33 

Pounds, Courtice, 279 

Pounds, Louie, 279 

" Press-Gagging Bill, The," 23 

Prestons of Preston, 2 

Princess Alice, the, wreck of, 204 



Prince's Theatre, Manchester, 89-91 
Prince of Wales' Theatre, the, 180 
Prior, Melton, 192 
Probyn, General, 137, 140 
Proctor, John, 119 
Punch, 94, 160 
Puttick & Simpson, 265 

Queen'sTheatre, theold, Manchester, 50 

Radley's Hotel, Southampton, 97, 171, 

172 
" Rambles in Syrian Deserts," 224 
Reed, H. Byron, 260, 261 
Reed, T. German, 169 
Referee, The, 105 
Reid, Captain Mayne, 107, 109 
Reid, Thomas Wilson, 120 
Reid, Whitelaw, 167 
Renshaw, Mr, 266 
Rhodes, Cecil, 295 
Ricardo, Captain, 121 
Ricardo, Lady Catherine, 121 
Ricardo, Florence, 121, 125 
Rich, Mr, 42 
Richardson, Dr Benjamin Ward, 1 16, Il7i 

144 
Roberts, Earl, V.C, 167 
Robertson, Tom W., 97, 159, 174, 180, 181 
Robin Hood, 10 

Robinson, Sir John, Daily News, 222 
Roehampton Military College, 298 
Rogers, Colonel E., 306-308 
Romantic Idea, A, 170 
Romer, "Bill," 158 
Ronald, Mr, 31 
Rosebery, Lord, 295 
" La Rue a Londres," 225 
Russell, Henry, 159 
Russell, Lord, of Killowen, 295 
Russia, 206 

Sagar Island, 33 

St Bruno of Cologne, 313, 327 

St Helena, 44, 87 

St John, Horace, 158 

St Lawrence, I.O.W. , 260 

St Michael, Azores, 130 

St Vincent, Bay of, 14 

Sala, G. A., 105, 145-151, 157, 170, 185 

Salamon, Gordon A., 295 

Salt Lake City, 93 

Sampson, Henry, 105, 112, 114 

Savage, Richard, 156 



350 



Index 



Savage Club, the, 97, 153, 157, 167, 171, 

173, 185, 1S8, 274 
Savage Club Tapers, the, 155, 160, 272 

Sawyer, WilHams, 119 

School for Scandal, The, 1 68 

Scotland Yard, 336-338 

Scotsman, The, 141 

Scott, Archibald, 201, 202, 204 

Scott, Clement, 160 

Scott, Captain R., 167, 282, 283, 287, 288 

Scott, Sir Walter, 223 

Seaman, Julia, 49 

Sedgwick, Amy, 49, 168 

Serapis, the, 131-133, 137- 141 

Shanghai, 73, 75, 85-87, 203 

" Ship on Fire, The," 160 

Shoalhaven, 58, 61, 65-72 

"Siege of London by Posteritas, The," 231 

Simplon, the, narrow escape on, 232 

Singapore, 87 

" Sister Mary," 83 

Skene, James Henry, 223 

Skene, William, 223 

Sketchley, Arthur, 94, 159 

Smith, Archibald, 130 

Smith, James, 120 

Smith, "W. E., 282 

Smith, W. H., & Son, 229 

Soames,Mrs, 57 

Solomon Islands, the, 86 

" Son of Night, The," 49 

Soutar, Robert, 158 

Southampton, 3, 7, 171, 172, 201, 203 

Southern, E. A., 159, 180 

Southport, 209 

Spiers, Mr, 114 

Spiers & Pond, 105, 113, 184 

Sportsman, The, 120, 246 

Standard Theatre, the, 90, 105, 133, 197 

Stanley, H. M., 166, 181, 182 

Stirling, Mrs, 170 

" Stormlight," 223 

Strand Magazine, The, 260, 293 

Strand Theatre, the, 196, 288 

Strasbourg, 206 

Stratford, Lord, 224 

Strauss, Dr, 159 

Sturgess, John, 154 

Suez Canal, the, 44 

"Suffolk Punch," 48 

Sullivan, Barry, 196 

Sully, Monnet, Mons., 187 

Sutherland, Duke of, 136 

Swanborough, Miss, 196 



Sydney, 57, 58, 61, 68, 69, 72, 74 
Symonds, John Addington, 207 

Tablet, The, 172 

Talfourd, Serjeant, 164 

Talfourd, Francis, 156, 168, 169 

Tantallon Castle, the, 304 

Tarragona, 311 

Tawhia (Maori King), 197 

Taylor, Tom, 169 

Teesdale, Colonel, 136 

Tegetmeier, W. B. , 157, 306 

Tenniel, Sir John, 295 

Thackeray, W. M., 153 

Thames, River, 205 

Theatre Royal, Liverpool, 50, 196 

Thompson, Archbishop, 223, 224 

Thompson, C. D., 235, 238 

Thompson, Frederick, 236 

Thompson, General, 42 

Thompson, Gordon, 109 

Thompson, Lydia, 92 

Thompson, William, 235 

Thornbury, Walter, 183, 184 

Tillotson of Bolton, 109 

Times, The, 184, 237, 240, 24I, 249, 263 

Tinsley Bros., 112, 144, 155, 160 

Tinsley, Samuel, H2, 144 

Tinsley, William, 105, 1 12 

Tomahawk, The, 17 1 

Tom Hooifs Comic Annual, 1 16 

Tonkin, Mr, 30 

Toole, J. L., 89, 158, 164, 165 

Topham, F. W. , 160 

Torquay, 180 

Torres Straits, the, 74, loi 

Tower, the, of London, 224 

Tree, Beerbohm, 284 

Treloar, Sir W. P., 284 

l^riboulet : the Deformed, 91 

Trollope, Anthony, 283, 284 

Turner, Godfrey W. , 193 

Twain, Mark, 161 

"Twice round the Clock," 152 

Ujljl, 181 

Uncle Jack, 306 

University College, Oxford, 296 

University College School, 115 

Valentine & Orson, 170 

Valles, Jules, 225, 227 

Vanity Fair, 154 

" Va-Nu-Pieds de Londres," Les, 225 

Vaudeville Theatre, the, 181 



351 



Index 



Vermische (Guide), 247 

Victoria, Queen, 43, 144, 168, 169, 262 

" Vidocq, The Life of," 260 

Villefranche, 213 

Virtue & Co., 144, 259, 262 

Vizetelley, Frank, 159 

Voiron, 315 

Wanstead, birthplace of Thomas Hood, 

"5 

Ward, Artemus, 93-100, 106, 160, 171-179 

Ward, Edwin A., 291, 292, 298 

Ward & Lock, 223 

Warrington, Mr, 265, 270 

Waters, Margaret, execution of, in 

Watson, Aaron, 197 

Webber, Byron, 275 

Webster, Benjamin, 158 

Weekly Budget, The, 119 

Weekly Dispatch, The, 112, 272 

Westall, William, 222 

Westminster Abbey, 183 

Westminster School, 296 

What happened to Jones, 288 

Wheeler, General, 43 



Wight, the Isle of, 260, 261 

Williams, Charles, 133, 139 

Williams, Maurice, 87 

Willis's Rooms, 191 

Wilson, Catherine, execution of, 56, ill 

Wilson, Crawford, 119, 168 

Wilson, J., of Rothesay, 202 

Wilton, Marie, 180 

Winchester, 201 

" Wingless Angel, A," 144, 262 

" Without Faith or Fear," 261 

Wolseley, Lord, 166, 185 

Worboys, Fred, 49 

World, The, 295 

Wyman, Edward, 229 

Wyman & Sons, 227-229 

Wyndham, Charles, 160 

Yass, New South Wales, 69 
Yates, Edmund, 158, 169 
Young, Brigham, 94 
Young Folks' Budget, The, 119 

Zermatt, 255, 256 
Zurich, 207 



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